


The Conqueror Reborn

by Majik724



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Aegon because that's canon so hush, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Multi, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-06-22 07:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15576588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majik724/pseuds/Majik724
Summary: The dragon has 3 heads, the prince that was promised, prophecy was never something that Jon put value in. Lady Stark hated him, and having Ser Arthur Dayne present only made things worse. Ideals, morals, and emotions clash as he comes to know his true purpose





	1. Chapter 1

**Another thing I've had sitting around for a while. The tags are as they appear. If you aren't okay with that then don't read please. This is a test for me, to see if I can do non-anime stuff. I've taken some liberties, so just roll with them please.**

**Rheagar Targaryen**

As the hammer swung, he knew it was the end, and time crawled to a stand still. The sun shined down, reflecting off the waters of the trident in the distance, just as it did from the weapon wielded by Robert Baratheon.

He knew that he would die here today, that his family would not rule again for years to come. But the dragons would rise, three heads bringing fire and blood once more.

The Crown Prince was thankful for his foresight, the gift his blood gave him. It had waned over the centuries, same as the magic of the world slowly had since the doom of Valyria.

The obsession over prophecies stemmed from the flashes in his dreams, the things he would see that had yet to come. The scenes were never very clear, often hazy enough to be nearly indistinguishable.

He had been a fool, to believe himself to be the Prince who was promised. That was only further compounded by the very nature of their origin…Tragedy.

What tragedy had he, a rich noble who'd one day be king, with the world at his fingertips, ever experienced?

No prophecy began from the safety of a palace. Isolation, despair, betrayal, a looming threat of overwhelming strength and impossible odds, these were the workings of a prophecy.

The prince knew that his son would be the man to bear this burden. He had seen it vividly. A figure clad in black, his sword raised, red and lit aflame. The heavy snows of the long night carried by harsh winds.

At his side were two women, one familiar and the other not. To the right was his Rhaenys, for that dark brown hair with streams of silver-blonde were all too familiar. She stood tall, proud, and fierce in the face of the hazy winds of snow and ice.

The other, while not familiar to him, was clearly of his blood. Long braided silver-blonde tresses, slim build standing with the determination of one ready to draw steel against flesh. This _had_ to be the soon to be Visenya, his third child, and second daughter.

That image brought more pride to him, than anything ever had. Aegon, his son, would defeat the darkness and bring the dawn.

He wished he had been able to see the grown face of his eldest son, but alas it was not to be. He had only ever seen the back of the black hood that had been pulled up.

What he wouldn't have given to be able to gift them with the petrified eggs he had managed to procure from Valyria on their name days, the creatures that their namesakes brought the seven kingdoms to heel, bringing with them a new age of prosperity.

The heavy hammer connected with his breastplate, sending the embedded rubies into the waters, as his chest was brutally caved in.

Rhaeger looked into the enraged face of his killer, Robert Baratheon.

_Ours is the Fury_ were the stags house words, and they were fitting. The Heir to Storms End was a tall and heavily muscled man, jet black hair and piercing blue eyes that spoke nothing but hate.

As his back met the ground beneath, his breath left him. He could not say nor hear anything, as his mind drifted to the Dornish tower holding three of his treasures.

His eldest daughter Rhaenys, Lyanna his wife, and their yet to be born child. Sweet Rhaenys had taken to Lyanna immediately. Watching his wolf of a wife play with her spoke volumes of the mother she would be.

Rhaeger wished he had been able to move Elia and Aegon to the tower of Joy as well. But Elia had turned ill once more, and Aegon too young to be far from his mother. He would just have to believe that his remaining friends in the capitol would move them to safety.

His Mother Rhaella, had been close to delivering her child, when last he saw her. Her treatment at his fathers hands had brought him endless guilt, because he saw no way to end it without becoming a kinslayer. And a kinslayer would not have the peoples love and respect, Noble or otherwise, even if it was the right and just thing to do.

He could only rely on his friends and allies once more. Rhaeger felt his eyes closing, never again to open.

**-LineBreak-**

**Eddard Stark**

This was not how it was supposed to be, not was he was fighting for. Roberts rebellion had been about justice, not about overthrowing the Targaryens. The things that his so-called _brother_ had allowed to happen, were beyond deplorable.

Thousands of lives had been needlessly lost in this conflict, and it had made the new Lord of Winterfell take a closer look at his closest friend.

The beginning of the rebellion had been about the murder of Rickard and Brandon Stark, and the _abduction_ of Lyanna Stark. Ned agreed with the need to seek justice for his father and brother, but Ned had only tried to bring up his sister once with Robert.

One would have to be blind to miss the way his sister and Rhaegar had looked at each other. It was very reminiscent of the way that Catelyn Tully had looked at Brandon.

There was little doubt in his mind, that there had been no kidnapping, instead that his sister had run away with the prince in defiance of her betrothal. Lyanna had always been strong willed and wanted to make her own decisions.

As he, Howland Reed and 5 others rode through Dorne towards the Tower of Joy, he readied himself.

Ned Stark was done with shedding blood unless absolutely necessary. Too many deaths weighed on his conscience. Elia Martell, and her babe Aegon amongst the heaviest to have occurred thus far.

The bloodied and defiled nature of the body of a small girl had not deceived him nor Howland. The one offered up as Rhaenys, was nothing more than a fake. Whatever Tywin Lannister was up to, it was nothing the northmen approved of.

The bannermen of the North present had agreed to keep this knowledge to themselves, especially after the sack of kings landing. How a ward of the ever honorable lord Arryn could condone such a thing was beyond any of them.

"Ned, how do you want to approach this?" Howland asked from beside him.

The Lord of Winterfell kept his gaze forward, as they rounded over a red sandy hill, their destination coming into view.

"I am tired of this war, my friend. The mad king is dead, justice for my family has been delivered. I only wish it had come at a lighter cost."

His storm grey eyes caught sight of what had been whispered through the southern kingdoms. In front of the tower, stood three men in white cloaks, silvery white scaled armor marking their particular standing in the realm.

The men of the kings guard were ready, having heard the approach, hands on the hilt of a blade, or two in the case of Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Stay back, but be prepared. I desire no harm for these men without cause."

His companions slowed their mounts to a slow trot before stopping as Ned rode closer.

He caught the gaze of Ser Gerold High-tower, the commander of the kings guard, as the man made to stand with Ser Arthur Dayne in the front, Ser Oswell Whent keeping his place nearest the stairs of the tower.

Ned hoped that this worked in his favor, for there the rumored greatest swordsman alive stood in front of him, along with his commander, who in his own right was more deadly than most.

He came to a stop, dismounted his horse, and made to stand to three full sword lengths away, in case things got heated enough to draw steel. This would hopefully be enough time for the others to join him in time.

"Greetings, Lord Stark." The voice of Ser Gerold was deep and etched with experience.

"And to you Ser Gerold, Ser Arthur." Ned returned, his voice neutral, but not unpleasant.

"You're a long way from the North, My Lord. Upon the last Raven we received, Robert Baratheon gave you leave to return to Winterfell, to your wife and your home."

Ned minutely rose a brow, only slightly surprised that word of the happenings in the capitol had reached them. The spider must have been the culprit, not surprising as he was the one to give confirmation of Lyannas location.

"Aye, he did. As far as the capitol is concerned, My men and I are sailing for White Harbor, only to be turned south by rumors of my sisters location."

His wording gained apprehensive expressions from the two knights, brown and violet eyes boring into him with an intensity that would make a lesser man cower.

Ned could see that the royal guard suspected he knew more then most of the kingdoms about the falsities told during the war, but were unsure of just how far that knowledge went, or how he'd obtained that insight.

"And the truth, Lord Stark?" Ser Arthur spoke.

The sword of the morning had been more observant during the tourney at Harrenhall, watching as his sister had conversed and danced with the Stark sons.

Brandon Stark had made a name for himself, as he dishonored women by the dozens, how a child hadn't come from his activities, he'd yet to decipher. Those with the blood of the First Men, were known to be more potent then average.

Ser Arthur had seen the Northern heir flirt and dance with his beloved sister, cautious anger bubbling underneath the surface.

When she had approached Eddard Stark, he had been close to approaching and stealing her away, lest she be caught in the clutches of the wolves of Winterfell for good.

To his surprise, Ned Stark did not flirt, or eye his sister like some conquest. He danced and conversed politely, only small smiles breaking the stoic face of the quiet wolf.

Arthur lowered his guard when he saw Brandon with his betrothed for a good portion of the evening, and Ned returned to his solitude after spending a fair amount of time with Ashara.

Learning his sister had been dishonored, and was carrying an illegitimate child had him ready to ride north and behead the second born Stark.

He would have, if Ashara hadn't told him that it wasn't Ned, but Brandon, who had just died under the Mad King.

His respect for the Lord of Winterfell had been elevated, as Ned had apparently warned Ashara of his brothers intentions. He wished she had listened.

She had not been in good health when they parted, her lover dead, her babe delivered stillborn. He prayed to the seven that she could fight off these demons, lest the grief consume her.

"The truth-" Ned started, slowly unsheathing Ice, his Valyrian steel great sword, causing the two kings guard to do the same.

Ned stabbed his blade into the ground, his eyes never leaving Ser Arthur or Ser Gerold.

"Unfortunately, is what the victors make it to be."

Blades lowered, the royal guard waited for more of an explanation, as Ned looked at them with haunted and tired grey eyes.

"The war I fought ended with the sword of Jaime Lannister through the back of the Mad King. The wrongs done to my family have been corrected, which is all I ever wanted."

Arthur Dayne sheathed one of his blades, keeping Dawn drawn, as his Lord Commander sheathed his own blade.

"And what of the Queen Regent?" The Dornish legend asked.

It had been well known that Robert Baratheon started his rebellion mainly for Lyanna Stark, even if he claimed it was because of what the Mad King did to the Warden of the North and his son, along with calling for the heads of the Arryn Wards.

The heir of the Storm lands was a selfish and lustful fool, letting his cock do most of his thinking outside of battle. Even then, his cock had decided to march into battles anyway, to claim the one he was promised.

Ned gave them a sad smile, as they had just confirmed his thoughts and suspicions.

"I'm to be an uncle, am I? Thousands of lives could have been saved if she had run away publicly, not keeping it secret."

Ned sighed, giving a small shake of his head.

"I love her dearly, but nothing with her is ever easy, as i'm sure you've found out." His remark was only met with slight nods.

To them, there was no point in hiding the fact that his sister was in fact here. He'd already known, and he had made no moves against them.

"I had wanted to bring her back to Winterfell, where I could keep her safe. Her being with child complicates matters. I fear she would not be safe there now, not after what Robert allowed with Princess Elia and her babe Aegon."

On that, they could all agree. In his blind rage, Robert had lost reason with anything regarding the Targaryens. Elia had not chosen to be wed to Rhaegar, but was killed for birthing the _dragon spawn,_ as he called them. Lyanna would likely be no different, no matter how much Robert claimed to love her.

A painful scream, muffled yet echoing from the tower window, came across the plains. Ned stiffened, as the guards merely cast a glance in the direction.

At first, Ned thought she might have been attacked, until the rational part of his mind remembered who stood in front of him. These were the three best of the kings guard, not a force easily slipped passed.

That brought the only other conclusion to the forefront.

"She's birthing now?" He asked, his voice harsh and almost a whisper.

It was too soon. Lyanna had disappeared nought 9 moons ago. For a child to already be coming into the world, it must be early. Early enough were it might not survive.

Ned knew his sister well enough to know, that she would not lay with Rhaeger unless they had married. She may be wild and independent, but she was not stupid. The life of a bastard was not one she would wish upon her child.

"She is, the midwife arrived just this morning, thankfully." Ser Gerold answered.

Both men were about to speak up at the same time, before a young girls voice broke through.

"Ser Arthur! Ser Arthur!"

Oswell Whent tried to block the girl from view, and keep her from coming into view of the arrived party. Wavy dark brown locks, with a few silver strands breaking through, and a darker skin tone was all Ned could see for a moment, but it was enough.

He breathed a sigh of relief, his thoughts about the body presented in the throne room were correct.

The girl wiggled her way under Ser Oswell, prancing down the stairs with an innocence that warmed the heart. Her small body was fitted with a yellow dress that fluttered in the breeze of the hot Dornish climate.

"The spider?" Ned whispered to Gerold.

"Prince Rhaeger, but the spider helped to facilitate. I assume that is who told you as well?" Gerold asked.

Ned nodded. "Aye."

The girl continued her way towards her favorite of the knights present, as the men conversed quietly.

"The one presented as Princess Rhaenys, how close are they in appearance?" Gerold whispered.

Ned thought on that for a moment, as the eldest Targaryen child hugged Arthur Dayne like he was family.

"Only those who had seen her before, and looked closely, would be able to tell. She was too mutilated otherwise. Robert, myself, Tywin, and Varys were the only ones who saw the body, the others didn't want to see a child so young so defiled."

Ser Gerold nodded, as Rhaenys looked up to Arthur, and spoke loudly, typical of a child so young.

"Mama Lya asked for Uncle Ned again." Her high voice pierced through the hardened veil around Eddard Starks heart. The child being here was one thing, but to refer to his sister as another mother, proved that this had not been a kidnapping. There was an established relationship there.

"Is he here yet?" She questioned the sword of the morning, her light brown eyes glimmering in the hot sunlight.

"Aye, Princess, I am here." Ned said with a smile, getting a slight scowl from Arthur.

He couldn't blame the man. They had come to know that he wasn't here to fight over his sister, but had no idea what he might do with the knowledge of Rhaenys being here.

The girl snapped her head over, her hair flinging from her shoulders to her back, the silver strands becoming more apparent as they did.

She eyed him with a finality a girl of 4 name days should not possess, before smiling. Rhaenys let go of Arthur and skipped over to Ned, stopping just out of arms reach.

"You and Mama Lya look a lot alike." Her happy voice, her smile, it was so foreign to him over these last months that Ned almost didn't know how to act. The war had been bloody, and filled with atrocities that no man woman or child should witness.

She looked at him, as he imagined a true niece would, with love and curiosity of what his life had taught him. Ned went to one knee to level with the girl.

"Aye, she is my sister after all. You said she was asking for me?" He said in a soft tone, casting hard glances at the guards who ignored it.

Rhaenys gasped with a jump, having forgotten, once confronted with her newfound uncle.

"Yea! C'mon, this way!" She grabbed his hand, tugging him forward.

Ned barely had time to get his other foot on the ground, to avoid going face first into the dirt. He watched as Ser Oswell sighed and stepped aside, and Ser Arthur follow them closely. There was no point in keeping him out of the room now. Both the Princess and Queen Regent were giving him access, they had little room to argue.

If his sword had still been in his possession, they may have tried, but with it still standing point first in the ground, they did not.

The way Rhaenys bound up the steps, spoke of how many times she had done it since her time at the tower. They were weathered, some cracked and broken, a few missing completely. Still, Rhaenys never missed her footing.

A long and pained groan, followed by a muffled voice reached Neds ears, as they made the halfway point. Ned caught the scent of Iron, of blood, starting to filter through his nostrils.

Childbirth was not known to be a clean or pleasant experience for a woman, but should he be able to smell the blood from this far away? It seemed to him to be a bad omen.

Another yell, more pained, yet less filled with life spurned him forward. Ned had to remind himself that Lyanna was a strong woman, she'd always been strong. Childbirth would not have her meeting the gods.

The Iron in the air, as they came to the door was so strong that Ned could almost taste it. He stopped, bringing Rhaenys to a halt with him. She looked back questioningly, wondering why he wasn't moving anymore.

"Please Princess, wait here." Ned urged. If things were as bad as his gut was telling him it might be, she should not bear witness to it. The words were hard to come through his lips, as he dare not believe it himself.

But he had been through enough battles to know when the smell was this potent that it spoke of death, or one soon to come. His heart beat in his chest wildly, his hands sweaty, and eyes having a hard time not shaking.

Ser Arthur came close, placing his hands on the girls shoulders, giving Ned a solemn nod, likely having come to the same conclusion.

Rhaenys pouted, an expression that threatened his resolve. "But I want to see my new Brother or Sister."

If there had been any doubts in his mind before, they were gone now. This girl needed to be protected, just as his sisters child would have to be. The actions of her family were not for Rhaenys to answer to, she was just a child.

But Robert wouldn't care. He would hunt her down regardless, if he knew she still lived. Tywin Lannister would probably already have spies on the prowl looking for her to keep his failure from being known.

"Once the babe is ready, okay?" His throat had a lump growing that was getting harder to deny.

She nodded with her still in place pout, and Ned turned to enter the tower.

Once the door had been opened and closed behind him, Ned felt an almost unbearable urge cover his nose with a cloth. There was no more doubt about what was to come for his beloved sister.

His steps were hurried through the first room, where only a table, a few chairs and a bookcase were held. The second contained a small bed, that he assumed Rhaenys had occupied, a few of her toys scattered along the floor.

The third room ended up being his true destination, he heard the soft voices, scuffling of feet on stone before he entered it.

The sob almost broke loose before he could stop it, as he stepped inside. There she was, with a midwife and a wet-nurse by her side. Even with the sweaty and sickly pallor, his sister was still a beauty to behold, her pained and frightened expression taking away none of that.

And the blood, there was so much that Ned wondered how she'd stayed awake through all of it. But that was Lyanna, strong and stubborn and wild. Her grey eyes opened and caught sight of him before the other women noticed he'd entered.

From her belly down, the bedding was turned crimson. Her favorite blue flower, the winter rose scattered around her, did nothing to take away the horror in front of him.

"Ned…" She whispered, and he couldn't help the tear that rolled down his cheek.

He rushed to her side, kneeling to her left and taking her hand in both of his.

"I'm here sister."

Her smile was shallow, using all the strength that remained in her to do that much. The smile faded, as her shoulders started to shake, quiet sobs coming through her.

"It's really you? You're not a dream?"

"I'm really here Lya. I'm with you."

Her sobs became less controlled, as her hand squeezed his with all she had left.

"I missed you big brother."

Ned would have wanted to wipe his own tears, but comforting his sister was more important.

"I've missed you too." He whispered.

"I want to be brave." Her voice was losing its volume even more.

Ned brought a hand up to wipe her sweat and tears away from her eyes.

"You are."

She tried to shake her head, but didn't have the strength.

"I'm not. I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die." The words were bitter on his tongue, knowing that they were most likely false, before he turned to one of the women.

"Get her some water." He ordered. The mid-wife looked about to comply before Lyanna argued.

"No, no water."

"Is there a maester?" Ned asked loudly towards the two women.

"Listen to me Ned." His sister whispered, and he had to lean in to hear.

"His name…Is…Aegon Targaryen. Protect him, Ned. You have to…Promise me. Promise me Ned."

Ned pulled his head back, eyes locked on Lyanna's, watching as the life in them slowly left.

He nodded, and he watched as she smiled, the midwife bringing the new born babe for him to hold.

"Robert can't find out. He'd kill my boy, you know he would." Lyanna said as Ned stared at his nephew, the rightful king of the seven kingdoms.

When the babe opened his eyes, Ned let out a breath of relief, for the Targaryen trait was not there. His nephew looked as Stark as any newborn could be.

Dark hair, eyes like that of an impending storm. The door was opened, letting light seep in, and Ned lost the remaining air in his lungs at what he saw.

Violet, it was small but still there, and likely to only become more apparent as the boy aged. It was like there were small bolts of purple lightning in the babes eyes, in the places where the veins lay underneath.

Ned looked up to Lyanna, to see her staring at him, her eyes glazed. He looked back down, the boy ever silent in his arms, no crying or fussing. Just a curious and somehow solemn gaze from those orbs.

Ned noticed out of his peripheral, that Lyanna hadn't moved an inch, and looked back to her.

He almost wished he hadn't. Her gaze was fixed, body still, no breath being taken. She was dead. His sister had died, and he was too preoccupied with his observations of his nephew to notice.

Shifting the boy into one arm, Ned closed his sisters eyes, grasped her hand tightly and wept silently, just as was expected of the quiet wolf. He had no idea how long he stayed in that position. His nephew hadn't made a peep, only shifting ever so slightly once ever few minutes.

Boots clanked on the stone floor towards him, but Ned ignored them, fully expecting it to be Arthur Dayne. He found he was right, as the knight got to one knee beside the opposite side of her bed, his violet eyes surprisingly saddened.

The sword of the morning closed his eyes and bowed his head, whispering the prayer of the new gods for those who've passed on. Ned was pulled from any wondering thoughts, as shouting and the sound of clashing steel echoed from outside.

The two men stood, Arthur more quickly as Ned still held his nephew delicately. Large strides brought them down the spiral staircase along the tower quickly, finding Rhaenys cowering at the last turn before reaching ground.

The men passed her by, Arthur drawing his blades with a scowl at what he was seeing. Howland Reed was bellowing out for their riding companions to stop, as one was cut down by Oswell Whent with a blade through the chest.

Neds eyes took in the scene in confused horror, unable to determine who had started the fight, or why.

With only 4 left, and the sword of the morning entering the fray, he knew without a doubt who would quickly claim victory. Ser Arthur parried with dawn on the right, and slashed upwards on the left, cutting from thigh to chest on one of his men. Ned repeated the words of his friend, but none heard him.

He was not about to run into it himself, not with a babe in arm. As much as it pained him to do so, he could do nothing but watch and yell, trying to get the men to stand down.

Ser Gerold brought his greatsword down with a force that his opponent was unable to block, cleaving through the shoulder and chest, leaving the man to die only seconds later as the blood pooled around him.

Ser Oswell cut another down quickly, just as the last pair took arms against Arthur Dayne. The sword of the morning spun his blades in hand, ready to show the folly of their decision.

The two northmen, bearing no discernible sigils, rushed with ragged battlecries, Swords poised high from each side. One from the left, the other from the right, the blades were met and batted away.

If they had been well fed and rested, the men may have fared longer. As they were; tired, hungry and worn from months of fighting, the men were nothing but greenhorns to their opponent.

Ser Arthur spun left quickly, as soon as their blades were halted. His grip on Dawn tight, as his arm swung neck level with great force. Valyrian steel met the inferior counterpart only a moment too late, as the blade angled back towards the wielder.

His own blade bit into his shoulder, the man had no time to cry out, as dawn went through his neck cleanly. Dawn kept sailing through the air, as the head rolled from shoulder to dirt, meeting the other longsword to a dead stop.

The fight was over, when the second blade of Ser Arthur was buried into the mans belly. Eyes wide, gasping for breath, he fell to his knees, as he was released from his impalement. Another swipe of dawn left him headless as well, and silence reigned for a time.

As the knights looked to Howland, Ned looked behind him towards the steps. He came to the edge, where he could see Rhaenys trying to bury herself into the side of tower. She shuddered as the sound of his first steps came, and he stopped after the second stair.

"Would you like to meet your brother Princess?" Ned asked gently, trying to hold a comforting smile on his face, even as everything inside him screamed in agony.

Slowly, the girl peeked from the side, afraid to see someone with steel aimed at her. When all she saw was him and a bundle in his arm, she turned around fully, letting Ned see the tears flooding her eyes.

Wiping away her tears with her arm, Rhaenys nodded, still sniffling. Ned slowly made his way up the stairs towards her. She let her legs drop to sit on the edge of her stair, as Ned knelt down to her level.

While Ned waited for Rhaenys to compose herself, he looked her over. For the life of him, he couldn't understand how Robert could want such a sweet and innocent child killed.

If she was anything like her mother, and through their very short time together he believed she was, Rhaenys was nothing but sweet kind and curious. He could only base this from stories heard over the years, but he believed them after seeing her at the tourney.

Those copper eyes were immensely expressive, and spoke of knowledge and understanding beyond her years. Her trembling smile conveyed her bittersweet happiness of finally meeting her brother.

"Can I hold him Uncle Ned?" She asked quietly.

Robert would have him beheaded for his thoughts of this moment, but Ned couldn't come to truly care. A wolf may be wild, and viscous, but they protected their own no matter what.

With nothing more than a few words, Rhaenys had become just that, a part of his dying pack. He was the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North now, the head of his family, of his pack. It was _he_ who decided who joined, and if the Princess considered herself a part of it, he felt no reason to deny her.

_When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

Those were the true words of house Stark. It echoed how the people of the North were. They were loyal to their own, and when winter poked its head from the horizon, they banded together to ensure the safety of the pack. _Winter is coming_ was just easier for everyone else to remember.

"Of course Rhaenys." He hadn't meant to drop her title, it just slipped out after his own internal thoughts. She didn't seem to mind, if anything her smile seemed less hesitant now.

Slowly and gently, Ned placed the babe in her arms, briefly showing her how best to hold him. Her brother had fallen asleep after the fight, and didn't wake upon being placed in his sisters arms.

His head turned, smacking his lips briefly, but was otherwise still. Ned wondered why the babe had been so quiet throughout all of this. To his knowledge, newborns were supposed to cry and flail, none of which happened.

He watched her gaze at him with all the love and wonder in the world, as her small finger played at the curl of black hair on his tiny head. Ned placed a hand on her shoulder, getting her attention gently.

"Keep him safe for me Princess, I'll be back in a moment." She seemed enchanted by him, as she hadn't taken her eyes away before replying.

"Okay Uncle."

Ned returned to the scene where his men had died, for something he did not yet know. Howland stood firm, arms crossed and looking frustrated towards the bodies on the floor, as the kingsguard each held one blade in hand lazily.

"Howland, what happened?" He asked, as the distance was closed, and Ned came to pass by the knights.

Howland Reed took a breath, removing his eyes from the death in front of him, moving them to his friend and commander.

"Fools, the lot of them. Must've forgotten why we were here in the first place." He grumbled.

"After Ser Arthur followed you, this one-" Howland pointed to the body with his shoulder tearing from the rest of his torso. "Said he smelt blood, accused the guard of attacking you in the tower."

The man sighed, feeling as Ned did on the loss of more life for no real reason.

"They attacked, couldn't get them to stop no matter how loud I yelled. I'm sorry Ned, but I felt that drawing my own sword would have only added to the chaos."

Ned looked over to the knights, Gerold and Oswell nodding, saying that had indeed been the events as they unfolded. He could not take back what happened, and apologizing was useless when the knights went unscathed. Those who had wronged them were dead, that was better than anything he could say to them.

"More needless death" His voice was getting hoarse, from his grief over Lyanna, the sandy air or the dry climate he wasn't sure.

"Where is the king, Lord Stark?" Ser Gerold asked, as he sheathed his blade.

Ned nodded his head towards the steps. "In the hands of my niece."

While Ser Arthur gave a small smile, Gerold, Oswell and Howland looked confused.

"Your niece?" Howland leveled an unreadable look upon him, Ned only nodded.

"Aye. The Princess has deemed it fit to call me her uncle. Who am I to refuse the child of my sisters husband?" Ned watched as Howland went wide eyed at that statement.

"Forgive me Lord Stark for the callous question. How fairs the Queen Regent?"

As the words passed through Ser Oswells lips, Neds face dropped, his eyes conveying the sorrow he was trying hard to keep concealed. Only a shake of his head was necessary.

The two knights who hadn't been up there to see for themselves, bowed their heads in brief prayer, while Howland laid a sympathetic hand on Neds shoulder.

After their moment of silence and prayer, the men gathered looked between each other, knowing that a plan now needed to be formed for where to go from here. The rightful king was merely an infant, and extremely vulnerable. His sister was only a few years older.

They still had some Targaryen family left, but they were hold up in Dragonstone, which would most likely continue to be under siege for months. And if Robert had any say, none inside with Valyrian blood would leave alive.

"My sister made me promise to protect him." Ned said, breaking the silence that reigned.

The knights did not take that too well, as told by the looks on their faces.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Ser Gerold asked coldly.

Ned hadn't really thought of anything just yet, at least not anything good. He had a duty to the North, and he meant to carry that out. But he was compelled to this task as well, he could not pass it to another.

"I could…claim him as my own, raise him Winterfell where he'd be trained and educated." Ned was just thinking on the fly, and knew that this plan had many cons to it. First and foremost, his wife Catelyn.

"The life of a bastard, is no life for the rightful King." Ser Oswell said, putting in his own opinion.

"Catelyn is a proud and noble woman Ned. She will not take this lightly, she's a Tully through and through." Howland added.

"Aye" Ned knew each of these things to be true. His nephew did not deserve to be raised as a bastard, but he had no other ideas on how to keep his promise. As for Catelyn, Howland was right, she would hate this. He wasn't sure if that would translate into her hating him, the babe, or both for the rest of her days.

She lived and breathed her houses words, _family, duty, honor._ If Ned brought the boy to Winterfell, that would be a strike against all three in her mind. Ned would have dishonored his wife, who was half of the family he had left beside Benjen. He would have broken his duty to her by not remaining faithful.

Arthur glanced back for a moment, towards the stairs, clearly deep in thought. When he turned back to Ned, there was a hopeful glint in his violet eyes.

"Lord Stark, the king is dark of hair, yes?"

Ned nodded to the question, unsure of where this was going.

"And his eyes?"

Howland took that moment to give voice to something that Ned would rather forget.

"Ned, you realize that every moment your…Niece and Nephew draw breath, Robert Baratheon will consider to be treason…Right?"

The knights moved on instinct, hands tight on their blades, shifting to ready positions. Ned looked over to his friend, seeing no desire to comply with his would be brothers request, merely a statement of fact.

"Aye, but I will not condemn a child for actions they are not responsible for. Whatever Tywin Lannister has whispered into Roberts ear of power and glory, it has changed him. I will not have a repeat of Kings Landing on my watch."

"And I agree, but whatever is to be done, must be done carefully and quietly. The less who know, the safer we shall all be in the end." Howland added, and Everyone present knew him to be right.

"His eyes mostly resemble Lyanna, but there are streaks of violet present, I worry it will only shift further as he ages." Ned answered Arthur, the knights easing their stances.

"We could take the king to Ashara. Her babe was stillborn, and the violet could be explained as Dayne traits. She's been locked in her room, I was the first to see her in weeks last I visited, no ones knows the news of her daughter."

Ned visibly recoiled at hearing that. Ashara did not deserve how his brother had treated her, and for the results to be as disastrous as Arthur relayed..It brought him near physical pain. Had things been different, he would not have been opposed to the whispers of his father setting a marriage between them. Although, the infatuation between her and Brandon would have undoubtedly brought tension.

He thought on the idea Arthur had for a moment. His ideal way of keeping the boy safe would have meant taking him to Winterfell. Perhaps he could persuade her to come to Winterfell as a handmaiden?

No… Not only would there be too many memories of Brandon for her there, Catelyn would assume his actions were because the babe was his, then her ire would be cast upon Ashara as well. The woman had been through enough, she did not need that.

Arthur, blades sheathed, stepped up to Ned to place a hand on his shoulder.

"Please. She needs this. It may not be her own but she won't care, and he will keep her grounded. She'll throw everything into raising him right, and Dorne does not carry the same stigma against bastards as the other kingdoms."

The way Arthur spoke, the desperation, told Ned of how poorly Ashara was faring. He must fear that she would end her own life, to be pleading as he was.

"Will I be able to see him?" Ned asked, looking straight in the eyes of the most deadly swordsman alive.

Arthur smiled brightly and genuinely, at having a hope for saving his sister from herself. "Family of his is family of hers, she would never keep you away."

Ned nodded, giving a heavy sigh at what he was going to do. Lyanna hadn't specified on _how_ to keep him safe, but this seemed a safer way. He just hoped that if she was watching from above, she wouldn't disapprove.

"What of the Princess then?" Ser Oswell asked.

And just like that, each of the men were brought back to the hard reality they resided in.

"Westeros isn't safe for her. Too many people will be able to recognize her, she's too unique." Ned said. Because who else would have a Dornish skin tone, with silver streams in her hair? Even if they regularly acquired the dye to change it, the chances for exposure were too great. No, she had to be brought elsewhere.

"Agreed." Ser Gerold spoke with a heavy tone. He didn't like the thought of having her flee her home country any more than the others, but he knew that Ned was right.

The quiet wolf turned, and without a word further went back to the Princess. Her tears had dried, though her eyes still looked red and bleary. She held onto her brother like he was the only comfort left for her in this world, gently rocking him with a small smile on her face.

The girl was a gem, and he wished that things had gone differently, that she wasn't about to be torn from the last of her direct family. But for the sake of her safety, it had to be done.

"Uncle Ned, what's his name?" she asked, bringing her copper eyes to him.

Ned opened his mouth to respond, but stopped himself. Should his nephew continue to hold the name Aegon, he would be immediately discovered as a Targaryen and their work would be for nothing, so Ned had to give him a new one.

"Jon" He said simply. It felt right, as to Ned the name was a symbol of the man of honor who had tutored himself. With the right guidance, his nephew could grow to be much the same, honorable and just.

Eddard Stark was not the naive boy he'd been whilst at the Vale, he knew there would be more wars to come, even if he detested the thought. The chances of conflict over the very children he was looking at, were high. The best way to protect yourself from those in power, was to take that seat of power from them. This entire rebellion had taught him that.

He would do whatever he could to prolong the start of said conflict, and to prepare those who would be involved as best he was able. It would take a considerable amount of time, and an even larger amount of trust between those at the center of it; The Kingsguard, Howland Reed, himself, and possibly Ashara Dayne.

"Your brother's name is Jon."

Rhaenys looked down towards her brother, leaning forward and placing a light kiss on to the forehead of the sleeping infant king. Ned heard her as she whispered a promise to love him for the rest of their lives. He hoped, that she meant as a sister, and not in the typical Targaryen fashion.

He would give her a few more moments before he had to break the news of the impending separation, she deserved at least that much. As the sun descended in the sky, it marked the end of the 283rd year after Aegons conquest. Ned prayed that the gods would bring peace for his family in the years to come.

_All_ of his family, the Targaryen additions included. He felt they were owed that much, after all the loss that had been brought to the Starks of Winterfell.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Arthur Dayne - 294 AC**

Summer snow, it was something that he knew was not uncommon in the North, but the phrase seemed an oxymoron to the Dornishman. It had been 10 years since he had come to dwell in the Starks domain, but it was not home. It could never be home, that would forever be Starfall.

Every morning, as he would wake to watch the namesake of his family blade, Ser Arthur Dayne wished they had moved more quickly from the tower of Joy. If they had, perhaps he _would_ be home right now.

They hadn't stayed very long at the tower, just long enough to bury the bodies of the northmen who'd disobeyed orders, allowing Ned and Howland to rest for the ride.

Arthur had directed Ned to where they had placed the letters Lyanna had written, which they were ordered to shoot down to keep their location as unknown as possible, and the other gifts and things Rhaeger had brought there from Dragonstone upon his last visit before his death.

He'd made absolutely sure that the letter of annulment between his silver haired friend and Elia Martell, along with the marriage that followed was safely among the things kept under lock and key in the chest they hauled with them.

Princess Rhaenys had been more devastated than anticipated, when she was told the group was to split up for an unknown amount of time. For all any of them knew, it could be forever.

The quiet wolf had swept her up into his arms, comforting her as best as he knew how. Whatever the man said to her, it calmed her down enough to see reason. She had still been crying when she left with Gerold and Oswell, but she didn't fight it.

The hope that had blossomed in his heart had been shattered nearly the moment they set foot in Starfall. The procession of people heading towards the sept had him rightly uneasy. Someone had died, and whoever it was, was loved by a great many people.

Arthur could think of none but Ashara to match up with that. He had unfortunately been correct. Not two days before they'd arrived, Beric Dondarrion saw Ashara throw herself from the Palestone Sword, the tallest tower of Starfall, her body claimed by the sea and never found.

And just like that, the plan he had hoped would keep both his king and sister alive had shattered, only to be left with the initial plan that Ned Stark had given. To raise 'Jon' in Winterfell as his own.

Arthur had managed to make slight alterations to this plan, to leave it vague enough that people would assume Jon to a bastard of Neds, with room to reveal otherwise.

Never had the words 'my son' been said by the Lord of Winterfell, instead saying that Jon was 'his blood'. The entirety of Westeros had taken that to mean that Lord Eddard Stark was so ashamed of sullying his honor, he could not utter the words, but wanted the boy to be cared for nonetheless.

His thoughts were interrupted by the snap of a twig behind him. Turning, Ser Arthur Dayne saw his king walking in to the clearing, the place Arthur trained him in swordsmanship, to appease the Lady of Winterfell. The woman wanted Jon to be as separate from her own children as humanly possible.

The light of the rising sun was coming through the trees, casting itself onto the right half of his king's face. Arthur could not help but marvel at the way he was maturing. He was merely 10 name days but was already developing the posture and air of a predator.

Arthur pushed him far harder and longer then the Stark heir Robb was, by Ser Rodrick Cassel. While Robb Stark would not start his lessons until mid-morning, Arthur and Jon started at dawn.

At midday they would break for a meal and rest, afterwards Robb would head to Maester Luwin for his lessons, while Jon went back to training on the sword for another few hours. The residents of Winterfell had no idea how Jon fared with a blade except for Ned and Arthur, they merely assumed they stayed at it so long, because 'the bastard of Winterfell' was a slow learner.

Oh how wrong they were.

As their eyes met, Arthur was reminded of the absolute necessity of his presence here in the North. The eyes of the rightful king looked like the most violent of storms, a dark grey that almost seemed black unless directly set upon by a source of light. The wisps of violet that Ned had spoken of so long ago had widened and became more and more apparent as the boy grew. It now appeared as though the color of his eyes were half Stark and half Targaryen. The contrast was striking.

"Today, we'll start on something new." Arthur declared, once Jon stopped in his place before his mentor.

Jon said nothing, solemn and brooding expression on his face as was usual. When the sword of the morning tossed two training blades to his feet, the bastard of Winterfell merely rose a brow before picking them up.

Arthur Dayne may be rumored to be the greatest swordsman alive, but he had a feeling he'd be ousted of that position in a few years' time. Jon had not only inherited his father's brow and cheek bones, but his uncanny ability to learn just about anything he put the time towards.

Arthur would put everything he had into making sure that Jon became a king that not only deserved to sit on the throne but would be able to defend it with his own hands.

Jon gripped the blades, testing the weight and feel of having one in each hand. Arthur set into a stance that Jon soon did his best to copy, only truly needing minor adjustments.

"Now lad, let me see what you are truly capable of."

**-LineBreak-**

**Rhaenys Targaryen**

_When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

The moment in which those words had been spoken to her now only felt like a dream, and she could not remember what else her uncle Ned had said. Whatever it was, she remembered feeling better after hearing it.

The thing she remembered most about that day 10 years ago, was meeting her brother Jon, and the warmth of having _the usurpers dog,_ as her _dear_ uncle Viserys called him, hug her so tightly.

She sat on the chair of the balcony of their small abode in Lys, the heat of the day in this eastern country not affecting her nearly as harshly as her Aunt and Uncle.

Rhaenys was 14 name days now and could only recall small pieces of her time in her homeland of Westeros. The rest was lost in the storm and chaos that had been her travels since.

Travel from city to city had been a thing that she'd grown accustomed to, as they moved to avoid assassins looking for a hefty pay-day. Pentos, Braavos, Qarth, Myr, and now Lys, it seemed as though it would never end.

Truthfully, she didn't mind that part all too much. If there was one thing that had come up over the last few years she wished to change, it would be her uncle Viserys.

They had lost Ser Gerold Hightower 3 years ago, in an ambush of half a dozen men wanting her family to bleed dry. Before that had been Ser Willem Darry, who had just been too ill to continue.

With only one member of their guard left, it made acquiring funds much more difficult. Viserys had taken to selling the remains of the treasures of their family, the queens crown being the last of items with any real value.

Once that had happened, she noticed the volatile turn in her uncle's mind. One moment he would be smiling as he would have when they'd first met. The next he would be ranting about his right to the throne in their homeland, and the next he would be set upon her or his sister in pure rage.

Her aunt Danaerys would often be the initial target of his ire, until Rhaenys came into the room and took her place. The bruises were harder to see on her olive skin, but visible nonetheless.

She had overheard Ser Oswell one night, mumbling to himself, that he wished he could just off the boy for good. That the madness had already made itself known and would only get worse as days went by. But her uncle was of the royal family, so he had to hold himself back.

She had started to share the thoughts of their protector, after sharing one of her dreams with her younger Aunt.

Danaerys and herself had more of a sisterly bond than anything else, they traded thoughts, dreams and stories quite frequently. Last year, Rhaenys had a recurring dream of sitting in her old home of the red keep. There was a throne in between where Danaerys and herself sat.

In her dream, they were waiting for their king, their husband, with barely hidden smiles of anticipation. They were counting the moments until they could announce how their family was expanding.

Viserys had overheard at least part of it, because he became just as obsessed with having them both for his wives, as he was for the throne itself. _I shall be Aegon the conqueror come again!_ Ever since, she would shudder as his hand traveled along her collar, cheek or back.

He must think himself some sort of Casanova, that he was irresistible, when truly he disgusted her.

In her dream, the king was not of the typical Targaryen visage. He had raven curls that hung from his head and almost down to his shoulders, Grey eyes with violet streaks that resembled lightning.

His smile was small but warm, his voice quiet but powerful. In Rhaenys' dreams, it was not Viserys but her brother Jon. The few times she had brought up her brother, Viserys had called her a stupid girl, that her brother had been murdered just as she had almost been.

After the 5th time Viserys had done this with her trying to correct him, she'd forgone mentioning her second brother at all. Ser Oswell was the only other one besides her among them, that knew of his existence, and he refrained from mentioning him all together for fear of some spy being close enough to catch any details.

The balcony door behind her burst open suddenly, getting Rhaenys to flinch and turn towards it. The thing she saw was the silver hair whipping in the wind, as Danaerys sprinted towards her, tears in her wide violet eyes.

"Rhaenys!" The girl of 10 name days called out through her sobs.

Rhaenys stood from her chair, opening her arms for the girl to run in to. Her aunt Dany rushed into them eagerly, sobbing into her chest, as she clung to her bright red flowing dress.

Her own brown and silver locks brushed against the crying girl's cheeks, absorbing some of the salty tears. Rhaenys stroked the back of her distraught aunt, gently trying to coax her down and speak of what ailed her.

It took a few moments, but Dany had eventually calmed down enough that her sobs turned into an occasional hiccup.

"What's the matter Dany?" Rhaenys asked. It had been quite a while since Danaerys had been so hysterical. She was normally strong, accustomed to the way her brother would yell at or occasionally hit them.

"Ser Oz! He's hurt! Viserys hurt Ser Oz!" Rhanenys went to immediately go and check on exactly what she was talking about, but Dany grabbed onto her arm, pulling back with her entire weight.

"No! Don't go, he'll hurt you too. He's really mad right now."

Rhaenys stepped towards the girl, placing her hand on her cheek. Why couldn't Viserys be like Dany? She was sweet and kind to a fault, always worrying over the well-being of those close to her.

"I won't let him hurt me Dany, I promise you. I merely want to find out what he's done to Ser Oswell." And how exactly a boy with no real training could accomplish such a thing against a battle tested member of the kingsguard.

Dany whimpered, but let go. She trusted Rhaenys above all others, as she'd been the most constant thing in her entire life.

Rhaenys walked through the rooms and to the stairs, listening intently. When she came halfway down to the first floor, she heard what she thought to be arguing.

She continued down, coming around the bend of the staircase towards the chambers of Viserys and Oswell. The arguing she thought she'd heard, ended up just being Viserys in another of his rants, though his voice sounded oddly tired.

She crept along the wall until she met the entrance to the second to last room, Ser Oswells.

"I told you _NOT_ to mention the usurpers dog in that fashion in front of me!" She heard something that sounded oddly similar to when they saw butchers cutting meat of their herds in the markets.

" _I_ am the one true king! _I_ am the one who will bring the seven kingdoms to heel!" The sounded repeated twice more.

"The Starks, the Baratheons, the Lannisters, they will all _burn_ for their treason against me!" She was close enough to peek into the room now but was suddenly feeling oddly hesitant in doing so.

This was on a different level from his usual ranting. He'd never outright claimed that he'd kill the great families of Westeros. He would go on and on about how they would be made to see the error of their ways and be brought to bend the knee.

_If they don't, they will see why you should never wake the dragon_ he'd always say, but had never elaborated, and they'd never asked.

Rhaenys took in a quiet breath, and slowly peeked her head around the corner, and into the room.

Her eyes went wide at what she saw. In his chair, book on the floor, was Ser Oswell Whent. This was his usual place early in the afternoon, either taking a nap to be ready to guard them throughout the night or reading whatever book he had scooped up to occupy his time.

Viserys was standing beside the chair, back turned to her, with a bloody knife from the kitchen in his hand. The tunic of their guard was punctured and turning more and more crimson by the second, as the blood pooled from the body and down to the floor.

Rhaenys turned as Viserys growled, gripping the knife hard again. Her mind was a whirl of what she could and should do.

"Aaaaahhh!" She her heard her uncle yell, more sounds of him stabbing an already deceased body meeting her ears. She needed to grab whatever she could, take Dany, and run.

The room next to Ser Oswells belonged to her deranged uncle. It was also the only place were anything of value was kept, as Viserys shared nothing. The remnants of whatever gold or memories from the Targaryen family was all kept in the chest beside his bed.

She walked as quickly as was possible, to keep her steps quiet and unnoticed. Her uncle had the most lavish room. He thought himself the rightful king, and demanded his room reflect that.

The red silk tapestries along the window fluttered with the heated breeze. His bed fitted with sheets leagues more expensive and comfortable than hers of Dany's. To him, the women of his family were merely there to be used as either pawns in his conquest, or to bring him heirs. Probably both, truth be told.

If Viserys had not demanded to have such luxuries, they would have had a much easier time affording clothing and food. Ser Oswell would not have needed to seek the odd job here and there, perhaps the queens crown would even still be in their possession.

She saw the chest and made her way to it. Rhaenys threw it open, hoping that the quicker she did it, the less noticeable the creaking of the hinges would be. Most of the contents were maps of the various areas of Westeros.

Viserys had collected them, stolen really, from shops in the market of Lys and Braavos. She moved them aside for what she was looking for. She tossed a few of the gems onto the bed, 2 rubies, an emerald, and half a dozen sapphires.

Just below that was her true goal, a woven sack that held all the meager funds they had left. She took the sack out, loosening the straps and throwing the gems inside.

She cinched it closed and stood, her breath coming in heavy pants as her nerves started to act up. Viserys was starting to rant again, the thought of why he was yelling at a man he'd killed ran across her mind briefly, before she shook it away.

Rhaenys took large strides out of the room and towards the stairs, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and make sure she and Dany stayed safe. She wanted to go home, to see her brother and uncle Ned again. She couldn't do that, not if she were dead.

And with the way Viserys had just seemed to lose his mind completely, there were no doubts in her mind that he'd kill her. Now or later didn't matter.

Dany was still on the balcony, right where she'd been when Rhaenys went downstairs. Her aunt saw the look in her eyes, the bag in her hand, and quickly walked towards her with questioning eyes.

Rhaenys placed a finger over Dany's lips, telling her to keep absolutely silent.

"Not a sound Dany, do you understand me?" Her voice had never been delivered to Danaerys this way, so serious and demanding. When she saw Dany nod slightly Rhaenys continued.

"You and I are leaving now. Grab my hand, walk quickly but quietly and do _not_ make a sound." When Dany nodded again, they turned and quietly made their way towards the door.

Rhaenys was not blind to how cruel the world could be. She knew the very real possibility of being kidnapped, raped or killed. But those were chances she was willing to take, against a sure thing of being killed by her uncle.

At least on their own, they had a chance. Remaining here was only a death sentence.

**-LineBreak-**

**Eddard Stark**

Ned could not count the times he wished that only the stresses of being Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North were all he had. That by itself, would have been enough for most men, as the North had the most land of any of the seven kingdoms.

There was more to patrol, more to guard from enemy threats, just… _more._ But no, on top of all of that, his Lady wife took it upon herself at least once a month, to antagonize him about Jon.

Their children presented no real added stress to him, he enjoyed each and every interaction he had with them, positive or negative. If they performed well, he would gladly praise them. If they had done something wrong, he would take the time to show them the error of their ways, and how to approach it the right way.

Ever since the Greyjoy rebellion, her tolerance of Jon had been on a steady decline. It had gotten to a point, where if he even _looked_ towards Jon for too long, he would feel her icy blue gaze upon his person, condemning him for his betrayal. A betrayal that had never happened, but he could not risk telling her that.

"For 10 years I have asked, and for 10 years you have never answered. _Why_ do you allow that _bastard_ to reside in our home?" They were standing at the rail overlooking the training yard, where Robb and Theon were being lectured about the proper way to parry a blow.

In truth, Ned had responded to her question, just not as thoroughly as she'd like. His answer, year after year had always been, _because I must._

After which, he would declare the subject done with and move on with his day, leaving his Lady wife fuming behind him. He did not trust himself to let the subject dwell too long at any given time, lest he reveal something he shouldn't.

He watched as Arya sprinted out from the keep, not paying any mind to the fact that the mud was flinging from her boots to her dress, right towards where Jon was just coming into view from the gates.

His youngest daughter adored Jon, as the lad had never criticized her about acting more ladylike as everyone else had recently started to do. It was like watching a reincarnation of his sister, wild, stubborn and fierce.

"Do you aim to wound me Ned? You let proof of your infidelity roam about where I must see and- ARYA! GET INSIDE, CHANGE YOUR DRESS, AND GET TO YOUR LESSONS!" Say what you may about Catelyn, she adored her children, and made sure they kept to their schedule as best as any mother of 4 could.

The girl of 5 turned towards them, looking for all the world wholly frustrated at being deterred from her favorite brother, before stomping back inside. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he saw Jon truly frown for a moment.

His nephew almost always kept his solemn mask on, ever since he found out what being a bastard meant. Ned had heard that Bastards grew up quicker, but only now was he truly seeing what that meant.

No boy of 10 name days should have that sort of control over his facial expressions. It made his heart ache, knowing that his duties kept him absent for most of the time Jon was not training or in his own separate lessons. The times in which he was left to his own devices, was typically when Cat had a break from her own duties.

Ned wasn't sure what was worse, not hearing Jon call him father anymore, or knowing that his wife was the top reason for it. Now anytime he spoke to Jon, he was referred to by his proper title, Lord Stark. It didn't matter if they were alone or not anymore.

The boy had very little interaction with anyone close to his own age. His job made it damn near impossible to see him, Cat despised him, and Arthur had become a shadow of himself since learning of his sister's death. All the sword of the morning seemed to think about anymore, was preparing Jon for the inevitability of his birth becoming known.

He'd already thwarted the curious eyes of Dorne twice now, they'd grown suspicious over the years, with the reports coming from across the Narrow Sea. Specifically relating to a darker skinned girl traveling with the two known Targaryens. They had started to look more closely at the timeframe of his travels at the end of the rebellion.

"I do not understand your desire to make me see the proof that you loved another woman more than your wife."

Ned snapped his head over towards Catelyn. Her light blue eyes, normally as clear and radiant as the summer skies of the South, held a red hue to them now. Ned knew that he should not feel the things he was at this moment, but her accusation had crossed a line.

"That's enough Cat…" He was quickly growing angry. He prided himself on being a good, honorable and just man. His honor had been stained by the presence of Jon, but he had known that the moment they left Starfall. They had been left with no other choice.

But accusing him of breaking the vows he had taken before the old gods was another matter entirely. He had sworn to love none as he would love her. Ned Stark could be called many things, but an oath breaker would never be one of them.

"Your fondness for Ashara Dayne is no secret Ned. And having her brother here beside the boy? You may as well just pin the sigil of Starfall to his back."

His nostrils flared, as his wife took in a breath, his blood turning cold like the Northern winds of winter.

"I remember the feast at Harrenhal, the way people talked as they watched you dance with her and- ". He'd had enough.

"I said that's ENOUGH!" His voice carried out through the balcony, over the training yard and beyond.

Like dousing a torch in water, all ambient sound seemed to halt. His breath came in deeply, trying to will away the rage that her accusations had brought about.

His wife looked at him in a way he'd never seen before from her but was all too familiar from a time long passed. Fear, at this very moment his own wife was terrified of him.

The moment he recognized it, Ned wished that he could turn back time and keep himself under control. Their marriage may have been merely political, but he had come to love her unconditionally. Never would he wish to see her look at him this way.

But the gods were not so kind. He had no way to take back the way he had just humiliated his own wife in front of the very ones they ruled over, who trusted him to keep a level head and act rationally at all times.

Her face cooled into a neutral mask, much like the boy she despised so much always wore. But Ned knew that behind the emotionless veneer, was a level of rage that would be passively enacted over the course of several moons turn.

"As my Lord husband commands. With your leave, _my_ _Lord_ , I would ensure our daughter gets back to her lessons with the Septa." Ned merely nodded to her before she spun, cloak billowing out behind her as her strides took her towards the room of Arya.

Ned cast a glance over the yard, seeing his son and heir Robb looking to where his mother had stormed off, before sending him a questioning glance. Ned turned the opposite way his wife had gone, his solar the destination in mind.

**-LineBreak-**

**Lord Varys**

Keeping a calm front was not all that easy at times. It was a carefully crafted skill, sharpened and honed by being in the presence of the dozens, if not hundreds of vipers that dwelled within Kings Landing.

It had taken years to know which corners to turn, what alcoves to hover in, and what doors to press your ear to in order to learn the secrets of his fellow capitol residents.

It had taken just as long, to figure out how to avoid someone else from doing the same to him. The worst two, were the queen Cersei Lannister, and the master of coin Petyr Baelish, otherwise known as little finger.

Kings Landing was the prime spot for someone looking to make a profit from spying on someone else.

Nowhere else in the seven kingdoms did the fate of lives dwell on what someone may or may not hear, as much as in this shit infested city.

He had to crane his head fully to the left as his hood kept his peripheral blocked, to check passed the corner of the stones of the brothel where he was meeting one of his little birds.

The preliminary report had not been good, and he needed to hear the full thing in person.

He almost had not believed the sweet dove that had delivered the grave news from across the Narrow Sea, singing songs of a crazed silver dragon, stabbing his very own protector to death.

His breath had hitched at hearing his life work being nearly ruined by one of those he had worked so hard to save. The two girls, one of whom may very well become queen if all went well, and considering the Targaryen proclivities, had gone on the run. All thanks to the madness that laid in the blood of one of their very own family.

The prince Viserys had shown small signs as a boy, but he himself had written them off as childish outbursts before sending him to Essos, thinking all would level out in due time. It was not the first time he'd been wrong, but it was the first time his error had such potentially far reaching consequences.

His disguise this late afternoon, was that of a weathered old sailor, looking for the comfort offered in an establishment such as this. His cloak was salt stained and tattered, back hunched forward and a moderate limp from a long-recovered injury.

The entrance was darkened, the time of day giving him the chance to slip by unnoticed as the working girls were almost all busy with their patrons. The flutter of small feet ahead of him let Varys know that his little bird was close by, having scurried into a known safe location.

The hall led near the store room where the barrels of wine were kept, the room beside it left nearly empty as the owner had no current use for it. His company today was a small boy of 8, red hair matted down and dirty from his explorations of this cesspool of a city.

Varys pulled his hood back, looking into the boy's eyes pointedly. The boy met his gaze unflinchingly, searching his face for the features that never changed no matter what he might dress himself up as.

The boy nodded, feeling certain he had the right person, then waving him to lean close.

"The knight was slain by the mad dragon, copper and violet leaving, never to be seen again."

The news was as grave as he'd heard. It was the same news to be sure, but no less upsetting. Varys had been away when Robert had sent his last batch of assassins, and thus unable to sway the events that had led to Ser Gerold Hightower's death. Now, there were no guards to protect the gems of the future.

"Where have the gems fled, little bird?" Varys handed over a few coins and a nice little sweet from the keep to the boy, which was eagerly taken and devoured.

"They make for the titan."

Braavos? That was quite the trip from Lys. While not the best place they could have chosen, it was far from the worst. As long as they stayed away from slavers bay, he could probably work something out.

Hmmm…If only they had made way for Pentos. He had finally secured Illyrio Mopatis as an ever-silent accomplice to his little wager. The merchant had been quite difficult to persuade, without offering one of the girls to his personal service, something that he would never allow to happen. An old friend Illyrio may be, none could fault the man for trying to save himself from King Robert's wrath should they be discovered.

No, the rightful king was being raised by Starks, the most honorable one to live in generations if the stories were to be believed. He was quite surprised to learn that no one in Winterfell besides Lord Stark and Ser Arthur wondered just who Jon really was.

Varys thanked his friend and carefully made his way back out, being sure that he was not seen. Once back out onto the street, he continued his slow and limped walk towards where the sewers dumped, ready to rid himself of this back-breaking disguise.

_Now how to handle this…_ Varys thought. The people of the lower part of kings landing paid him no mind, as the radiating smell lingering about took care of the traces of his usual preferred scent. To them he looked as though he'd come and gone from the ports dozens of times over the years.

Which was only part true, this disguise was one of the only ones he'd used more than once. The absence of a sailor for periods of time were nothing to bring anyone a modicum of suspicion.

The daughter of Elia was of 14 name days, his last report labeling her a girl of quick wit. Danaerys had still been too young to properly gauge as far as monarch qualities. If they slipped through the cracks now, it may be too late by the time he finds them again. He did not want an angry wolf, dragon, and sword of the morning coming for him.

An idea struck him suddenly, as he recalled something that had been delivered by raven no more than a moon's turn ago. If he remembered correctly, there was a certain exiled lord of the North, who had just fled Lys himself, headed for Braavos.

But if he wanted this all to play out, the man would no doubt want a pardon and only one man could give that in a way the northerner would accept. He would never fully understand the northerners and their honor.

In a fair amount of cases it made them predictable, thus easy to plan for. The timing of this mishap with the _mad_ _prince_ was poor. Now he would have to go straight for the long play.

He had not had contact with the Lord Eddard Stark since the rebellion, but the realm was where his loyalties would remain, so there was little choice in the matter. If things stayed on the current course, the post rebellion peace may not last much longer.

Varys did not like all of the extra work and travel that had just been placed on his shoulders. The lying and manipulating were only too easy, as he supposed anything could be with enough practice. He only needed to find the right pawns, the right motivations, and just the right wording to have it all work as planned.

The smallfolk in the capital alone were starving and suffering to a degree that was worrisome. If other areas were facing similar circumstances, it was only a matter of time before someone saw fit to make a move, forcing a shift in power.

As a servant of the realm, it was his job to ensure that power landed in the lap of one best suited to bring stability and peace. If a move needed to be made, Varys thought that perhaps it should be his own. King Robert was more likely to skewer himself on a blade in a drunken stupor then turn around his habits of whoring and spending.

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

For some reason, yet again, Jon could not fall asleep. He craved it, to give him an escape from the throbbing of his body, as well as from the gazes and remarks of the people of Winterfell.

No matter how much Jon heard that it was like seeing Lord Stark as a boy again, he was never made to feel welcome. The day he found out what his birth truly meant, would be forever burned into his memory, even if he had forgotten how long ago it was.

Ser Arthur had given him an answer, after the first whisperings of the word reached his ears, and he realized that the people referred to him. The sun had yet to fully rise from the horizon, when Jon had asked.

_What is a bastard?_

His uncle - no, Jon would not call him that anymore - Ser Arthur had actually seemed surprised by something. Never before had Jon seen the man actually fault in a step before.

_A child born to parents not married._ That had been his answer after recovering himself.

His words were simple enough but didn't clear any of the confusion over the way he was looked at or spoken about, so he dug deeper himself. The library of Winterfell was vast and almost always empty.

_That_ was where he learned of what he could never have, what he could never be. He was born of sin, outside of a union blessed by the gods. Jon would never carry titles or lands, never be able to carry on the name of the man he held above all others.

His… _Sire,_ for he had no true father, no true family in the sense of the word as he understood it, had not created him from the love towards his wife. No, as far as Jon knew, the mother he had no knowledge of had just been there and available.

When Lord Stark had sailed for the Iron Islands, Lady Stark had taken it upon herself to make Jon understand his place in the world. The world seemed to lose its color after that. No longer did his dreams seem to be anything but gray, no longer could he play and spar with Robb, or speak with and hug Arya.

What was probably the most painful part, was how quickly the Iron-born boy Theon, had been accepted into the fold. Where Robb once sought out Jon, Theon took his place as Lady Catelyn would otherwise scold them.

It has been over a moon's turn since he'd said more than a good morning to Arya, nearly a year since Ser Rodrick had pulled Jon to spar with Robb, when Theon was ill and bedridden.

Jon rubbed at his shoulder, where he had been unable to avoid a rather hard blow from Ser Arthur today. Any negative emotion he had felt, Jon took it out in his training, letting his mind channel it through his body to ease his heart. Wielding a sword in each hand was only just starting to feel anything resembling comfortable.

He did not understand why Ser Arthur pushed him so hard, why it seemed so important that he be better with a sword than anyone he may clash with. That had translated just as easily, when he was pulled from the lessons shared between him and Robb.

Now Jon was given a stack of books, told to read them over as Ser Arthur sat in the room with him. Maester Luwin may not have been the easiest teacher to listen to for hours on end, but it was better than the way his eyes throbbed from staring into books.

Digesting the material had not been too hard, but it was horribly boring. Having someone to listen to and ask questions of was much better. Nevertheless, he never complained, because he did not miss the icy glares Lady Stark gave him anytime she peered into the room to ensure Robb was paying attention.

The only consolation from his isolation from the other children, was the lack of her ire being directly pointed at him every day. He missed Robb and Arya something fierce, Arya especially.

Jon could not place a particular reason as to why, but he had always felt more connected to her than any of the others. Robb had always been kind, but they now rarely had time to interact with one another, and the ever-arrogant Theon sullied those moments.

Sansa took after her mother, snubbing him at any available chance without seeking him out seemed almost a game to her. But Arya, he could see that she didn't understand or care why anyone else treated him differently.

To her, Jon was her brother, the circumstances didn't matter. Not that she was old enough to understand them. The youngest of them, Bran, was still too young to really be away from Lady Stark for long. He had yet to take up lessons with Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrick, while Arya had only just started hers after her 5th name day.

A tired sigh escaped him, and Jon stepped towards the small window of his chambers, the smallest available of course. The inky black sky was giving way to a brilliant show of the stars tonight. They glittered and twinkled with a brightness that was unusual.

Not for the first time, Jon made a vow to himself. One becoming almost like a mantra. He would not make this vow to the old gods, for while he respected, believed and followed them, they clearly held him in no regard.

_No child shall be given the name Snow, not from me. No woman will be forced to carry that burden from mine own actions._

Something had happened during his training today, that had never happened before.

Jon had heard the whispers again, the people normally speaking in hushed tones not bothering to hide what they thought of him while he was sparring with Ser Arthur just out of view.

_The Bastard_

_A stain on Lord Stark_

_Winterfell's Leech_

Those words had brought Jon to think of Theon's smug smile and similar statements, and how much Jon just wanted to throttle the older boy in the face.

And then his vision went dark. The next thing he remembered was being on the ground, Ser Arthur standing above him with a strange look in his violet eyes. His hands were still sore from clenching onto his training blades so tightly.

Feeling restless and unable to sleep, Jon made his way to an area of Winterfell that he wasn't allowed. The crypts.

Housing the deceased members of the Stark family, Jon often came here when his mind kept him from sleeping. Creeping passed the guards was nothing, as long as he stayed in the shadows. The circular stairs down were the only place where he might have run into trouble, his slow and careful steps still giving a small echo through the stone walls.

Being a _Snow_ , Jon was not supposed to be down here. Only those bearing the Stark name were allowed, with Lord Stark being the only one who did with any sort of frequency.

The last quarter turn came, and Jon thought he heard a voice. Slowing down to keep whatever noise he _was_ making to a minimum, the boy peered around the corner.

Though the torch light was extremely dim, just enough to see where you were stepping, the voices were easy to distinguish.

"-a trait that supposedly died out many generations ago. His father never displayed anything like that, to my knowledge. When it happened, he matched my strength… And his eyes, Ned, his eyes flashed entirely _violet._ I've never seen anything like it."

It was Ser Arthur, his tone more serious than Jon had ever heard. The sword of the morning was never very jovial, but there was always this… ease with which he spoke. It was gone now, and Jon didn't know what to make of it.

There was a familiar sigh, one that Jon had learned to recognize immediately. Lord Eddard Stark.

What was he doing down here, meeting with Ser Arthur Dayne so late? What were they talking about? _Who_ were they talking about? Lord Stark was Jon's father…right?

"The news we received from the spider only makes that more troubling. I thought the stories of their lineage having magic in their blood was akin to those that say Starks bred with the children of the forest. Ser Oswells telling of her dreams and descriptions of him have me doubting what I knew of the world."

Jon was feeling lost. He didn't know what they were talking about, and it almost felt like they were talking about him. But there was no way that his father could be anyone other than Eddard Stark. Everyone said that he looked like the Lord of Winterfell as a child.

However, there was no one else that Jon could think of that the Warden of the North, and the Sword of the morning would speak about.

"And what of the rest?" Ser Arthur questioned as Jon tried to peer over the corner to catch a glimpse of the men.

By the slimmest of margins, Jon managed to see them. With a torch in hand, Ser Arthur Dayne stood before Eddard Stark with that piercing violet stare, his Lord father looked more uncomfortable than Jon had ever seen him.

"I fear the inevitable is coming. Oberyn has yet to venture from Dorne himself, so we may yet have time. When Robert finds out that Ser Oswell is dead, he will have more spies and assassins sent. I doubt that Viserys will last long on his own."

Ser Arthur, a known Targaryen supporter throughout all of his life, merely nodded in easy acceptance.

"If the information is true, the realm may be all the better for it. The madness sprouted early in him."

Viserys was a name that Jon recognized from his studies. It was a Targaryen name, given to a son of the Mad King. Why were they talking about the exiled family of the old regime?

"I don't like this Arthur. I promised her that I would protect him. If Oberyn were to actually try to find those two, then he'd question how she managed to escape, which could lead him _and_ Robert to Winterfell."

Even Jon could see that Lord Stark was just venting his worries, and for some reason Ser Arthur was the only one knowledgeable and trustworthy enough.

Jon found that strange. His lord father was no liar, and disliked omitting truth nearly as much. Lady Stark was only ever given anything but the full truth on one topic as far as anyone knew, the parentage of one Jon Snow.

A child he might be, but a bastard learned to grow up faster than others. They had to, for the world was not a kind place. Jon had it easier than most, being able to live within the same castle, but the ridicule was there all the same.

As things were Jon was not able to connect the dots as they were laid out for him. The only thing that became apparent to the boy of 10, was that his parents may not be what everyone expected or had been told.

**END!**

**Almost all of this was written before I even put up the first chapter. I don't want you guys thinking that I can pump put a 7k chapter 2 days after an update. 4 days maybe, but that's only if the inspiration strikes just right.**

**I need a palette cleanser from the usual stuff I do, so I might focus on this one more than initially anticipated. The chapters might get shorter so I can update more frequently and keep things to one perspective per chapter. Plus I have to really go through and double check everything I have planned. Gotta make sure it makes sense cause GoT has so much going on at any given time. Those things may affect how quickly this gets updated.**

**OH! Before I forget. If you're wondering about Catelyn's little freakout. Having Arthur Dayne staying in Winterfell helps to connect the dots on who she thinks is Jon's mother, and its like a slap in the face to her. She has to put up with an illegitimate child of her husband while there's still other family that the boy could have gone to stay with.**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Rhaenys Targaryen -295AC-**

Doreah had been a person Rhaenys felt lucky to have met. A lysene _pleasure servant_ that had a brush with the wrong men. The Princess refused to call the woman a whore. That word carried negative connotations with it that she felt would only needlessly shame her new friend.

Doreah had been born from a mother of similar standing, though her mother had apparently brought the situation onto herself, and the woman sold her only daughter into the sex trade at an early age. This side of the narrow sea, it wasn't something that was too unheard of, unfortunately. Some men sought physical release from girls that had only recently flowered, or close to that stage of their lives.

Rage was not an emotion that Rhaenys felt often. But thinking of girls around Dany's age or even younger being subjected to such things did the trick.

Rhaenys was not unaware of the small difference in their age. Yet there was a clear gap in the way they viewed the world around them.

While outwardly pleasant, sensual and charismatic, Doreah was quite the cynic when not relying on her learned talents of seduction.

Inside of what appeared to be a hastily built shack, Doreah and Rhaenys set to their task. It was unsavory, and not something either would prefer to be doing, but it was how they had kept themselves fed and out of debt with any "altruistic" citizens they might come cross.

A man of dark skin and reddish-brown hair lay on the straw heap meant to resemble a bed, a strip of cloth tied around his head to blind him. Neither of the young women had bothered to learn his name, but he had been given a very specific set of instructions.

"Don't think, don't speak. Just _feel_." Doreah spoke lowly to the man, her hand gently sliding up his thigh.

_This world has many great secrets, some of which are poorly kept._ Doreah had said as they were walking along the streets one afternoon. Dressed in rags meant to keep attention off of them, the three young women made their way through the crowds, Rhaenys and Dany hand in hand.

_Men believe that they hold all the power. But men are easily led astray by perky tits and a wet cunt._ The language was more vulgar then she believed sweet Dany should be subjected to. But the truth of the matter was that Dany had already seen her fair share of vulgar and violent behavior. The brothels of Braavos did not always have the best means of privacy, and the taverns often had a patron or two drawing steel over some imagined slight. Sex and blood were not a sight that was foreign to them now.

_Whisper sweet words of pleasure into their ears, and they follow like obedient dogs._ Rhaenys had a hard time listening to Doreah, as the Lysene picked a stray hair of the last man she had serviced from her teeth.

Rhaenys quietly snuck around the room as Doreah went to work, her slim stature aiding her in this instance. Copper eyes peering to the side, she saw Doreah's oil-coated hand deftly stroking the man, the slick sound grating on her ears and was louder than anything other than his breathing.

" _Gods_ above…" The man hoarsely groaned, getting Rhaenys to focus her attention towards what she was _supposed_ to be doing.

15 name days old now, Rhaenys imagined that she looked a near mirror image of her mother bar a few aspects. She was not particularly tall, her dark wavy hair falling down the middle of her back with the silvery locks carefully hidden underneath the thick mane.

From what she could remember of her mother, faded as the memories were, Rhaenys' bust was already larger. Her mother had been a sickly woman, and her development likely halted because of that. From what Rhaenys had learned, Dornish women tended to either be tall and flat or short and busty, with few women being in the middle.

Her Aunt Dany was likely to fall more into that middle ground, as the silver-haired girl was already up to Rhaenys' neck.

Short as she may be, Rhaenys was long-legged for her height and graceful with her gait. The steps she took were silent out of necessity, as she came closer to the man's bundled clothing on the ground.

A tunic of deep green, trousers of a faded brown and boots worn near to showing his feet lay before her. Slowly, Rhaenys kneeled to quietly rummage through his belongings.

The plan devised by herself and Doreah, mostly Doreah, was to offer sexual favors of a different nature in exchange for coin.

At first, Rhaenys had been wholly against doing such a thing. She was _not_ going to sell herself to some man just to be able to feed herself, the impending rant had been cut off before it was ever truly given voice.

_Don't worry Princess, I'm gonna do all the dirty work. You and I just have to dress the part._

The clothes of a typical whore were not hard to find or too expensive. The fabric hardly covered anything at all, her legs completely bare except for the long strip of fabric that swayed in the breeze down to her ankles and crossed over her breasts to the back of her neck. The single most solid piece of it was at her waist, covering her modesty yet easily removable. The light blue fabric was soft and contrasted nicely against her darker complexion.

Doreah would take the payment from the man who wanted _them_ , and while she was busy warming him up, Rhaenys would search through his things, taking what they thought the man wouldn't notice once Doreah was done.

Doreah had admitted to fucking three men to get the funds they needed to set up this little scheme of theirs. A plant that grew in the warmer climate of Essos had a strange nectar with a cooling and slight numbing effect. Doreah would tell the man that it would keep him hard as steel while she and Rhaenys gave him what he wanted.

Slathering it on her hand, Doreah would get the man to spill his seed before she applied the next ingredient below the blindfold, a powdered form of milk of the poppy that was lightly peppered under his nose. It would be inhaled at a much higher concentration compared to the liquid form used for medicinal purposes, and the man would soon fall unconscious thinking that he'd been given the ride of his life.

The left pocket of his trousers was facing towards her, so Rhaenys took the opportunity to feel inside.

_Nothing._

Pulling her hand back, Rhaenys carefully shifted to the other pocket.

A louder groan reached her ears, and Rhaenys knew that the man had just spilled over Doreah's hand.

_Let me warm you up, this oil will have you fucking for hours, and you just might be able to handle my insatiable friend here._ Doreah was good at what she did, and the men all looked at the Targaryen daughter like she held the answer to life itself.

The sound of a cork being removed from a small bottle was heard, Doreah giving the man the powder.

Rhaenys waited a few moments before she continued, wanting the man to start succumbing to its effects before she made any potential noise.

Counting as high as she could in high Valyrian, before repeating it in the common tongue. Once that was done, Rhaenys looked over to see the man completely unconscious. The right pocket jingled heavily, and she knew that they'd be able to save a few pieces for later.

To her surprise, this man seemed to be carrying much more than they would have ever thought. A handful of gold coins issued by the Iron Bank of Braavos laid between her fingertips. There had to be at least 40 pieces, far more than anything they'd had access to before now.

She looked back at the man warily. With clothing of this quality, there was no reason she could think of, for him to be carrying this amount so flippantly.

Doreah wiped her hand clean on the man's tunic before finding the small satchel he'd carried with him. The sound of coins moving was loud and apparent, and while the Lysene smiled victoriously, Rhaenys paled when she saw her friend double fist golden coins from the bag.

The three of them had been in Braavos for some time now. Careful as she had been to keep attention away from herself, Dany stood out significantly with her hair alone. For someone who might be wanting a payday from the crown of Westeros, they may as well have been screaming their identities at the top of their lungs.

_The usurper must have paid him for information, and then he wanted the extra payment to kill us._ Her mind was her greatest tool, though Doreah disagreed, and quickly came up with an explanation.

Three women, none skilled with a blade or any form of self-defense, and one who was only of 11 years. It would be child's play, theoretically, for a man to have snuffed them out with his bare hands. Dany was just in the other room, waiting for them to come and get her before moving to another part of the city.

"Grab it all Doreah, we have to leave." Rhaenys commanded, her eyes hardening as her mind raced for the next step.

"What? Why?" Doreah argued as she continued to feel through all the money within her grasp. "The plan was to only take enough that it wouldn't be noticed."

The sound of parchment came from the satchel, Doreah pulling it out curiously as Rhaenys rounded on her with a heated demeanor.

" _He's here to kill us!"_ She said forcefully, watching as Doreah slowly unraveled the small parchment.

Blue eyes turned to Rhaenys, staring through the blonde hair that had become unruly as she coaxed their patron for the night. They flipped between the parchment and Rhaenys quickly and frequently, unsure of how to take what she was reading.

Standing slowly, Doreah came over to Rhaenys with the satchel in hand. The parchment fell to the ground as the former bedslave reached for the Princess' hair, pulling the silver locks before her eyes.

"Seven Hells…" Doreah whispered with wide eyes.

"I thought it was a lie… You really _are_ a Targaryen. You and Dany."

Picking up the fallen scroll, Rhaenys read it quickly. They had little time to waste, just in case the man was not working alone. The chances were small but present nonetheless.

_Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm does hereby declare that Samon Pien of Braavos is to be rewarded by his grace the king, for information regarding enemies of the realm._

_Should Samon Pien of Braavos deliver Daenerys Targaryen and/or Rhaenys Targaryen to the Royal Court dead or alive, his Grace the King shall bestow upon him a Lordship and further financial compensation for keeping the peace._

They were being actively hunted now. The one who had murdered her father was aware of where they had been residing. Braavos was no longer safe. It was a shame because Rhaenys had been hoping to secure a steady home for her and Dany, one with a red door and a lemon tree if possible.

"Yes, and now we have to leave. This declaration makes it clear that he's working alone, but mine and Dany's whereabouts are known. This city won't be safe any longer."

Doreah had never seen that look in her friend's eyes before. It was scared, but there was an equal measure of defiance and determination to achieve. The Lysene nodded, unwilling to take chances of being on her own now that she'd most likely been seen with the two exiled royalty for the most part of a year.

Even if she took all of the money in the bag, Doreah was not confident that the king would not still find and interrogate her by means most foul.

Rhaenys strode passed Doreah and towards the door leading outside. Pulling it open with unnecessary force, Rhaenys strode out and around the shack.

The majority of the shack looked ready to fall apart if confronted with anything resembling a strong wind, luckily this part of the city was littered with buildings taller and closely knit enough that those winds were not much of a concern.

Along the back, the structure seemed to morph into something else. Stone laid neatly and professionally along the lower half was met by 3 steps downward before a door. The Princess rapped her knuckles against the wood twice, paused for a count of 4 and then three more times before pushing the door open. It was a signal for Dany to know that a familiar face was entering.

The door looked just as delicate and fragile as the rest of the shack on the outside, but on the back was hardened wood, new and heavy. As it was pushed open, Rhaenys had to let her eyes get accustomed to the torchlight. The short passageway was dark and chilly, they did not have a means to keep it warmer due to not having the place for a fire, the Braavos climate had done well enough.

Finding a place such as this had been a stroke of good luck, and now Rhaenys was wondering if being discovered and so close to death had been the will of the gods, rectifying the situation because she had started to actually feel comfortable here.

It was a sparsely built upon part of the city, near the outskirts where sailors and merchants walked through on the way to the taverns and brothels. Their little abode looked abandoned from any perspective other than the small view of the back where she had entered.

The passage was not long, only being a few strides before she came to the main living and sleeping area. Being underground as it was, there was a damp chill that never failed to seep into her bones. Rhaenys shivered, the dim torchlight shimmering against her dark hair.

She paused where she stood, as something caught her eye. Something that shouldn't be there, and in no way made her feel better about the situation her, Dany and Doreah found themselves in.

A sword, sheathed and attached to a black leather belt, leaning against the stone wall. It was larger than anything the three girls would have been able to wield.

Panic started to set in, and Rhaenys hurried further in to see Dany. Her Aunt knew that no one was supposed to be in here, she wouldn't have let anyone find her if they intruded.

There was a quick turn to the right and then left, and Rhaenys saw the area in which she'd been living in for months.

From right to left, there was a vanity set up uselessly, something they found nearby and had managed to bring down here just to make the space seem more liveable, though the lighting made using the mirror near impossible. A small rope tied to hooks in the wall where they were able to hang the meager clothes they owned.

Lastly were two beds, one larger than the other. The mattresses were both older, straw poking through the tearing seems. The larger one was where Rhaenys and Dany slept together, Doreah taking the smaller bed.

Dany was sitting where she'd been expecting, on the large bed with the wooden dragon and sewn doll clutched in her hands. Her violet eyes were staring across to the other bed.

"Good evening Princess."

A large man, sitting on Doreah's bed, spoke with a drawl and accent that she'd ever only heard once. Her uncle Ned had spoken in a similar manner, meaning this man was not only Westerosi, but he was a Northmen.

The man was large, with dark receding hair with a thick yet short beard on his chin. His broad build was covered by wool and leather armor, a deep green tunic laid over it showing the sigil of a bear. Even sitting on the bed, this man was up to her shoulders.

Deep blue eyes, serious yet not unkind, soaked in the image of both her and Dany with an obvious glimmer of hope. She didn't understand what to make of this.

The man was in armor, and of a stature that left herself, Dany and Doreah completely underpowered in comparison. He had invaded her home, loosely as the term could be applied. The sword propped against the wall left him without his primary weapon, for she had no doubt that he still carried a smaller blade somewhere hidden on his person.

He knew who they were, the rightful royal family of the seven kingdoms, yet he made no sign of moving to kneel or bow his head. Perhaps this last part was because he did not want to spark a panic in them.

"Who are you?" Rhaenys' voice was cold, Doreah coming to a stop a few feet behind her and eyed the man warily.

The muffled clink of a coin-filled bag lightly echoed off the walls as Doreah stepped next to Rhaenys, a shimmer of recognition in her light blue eyes as she looked from the man to Rhaenys.

"The bear of the Rhoyne." All eyes turned to the fair-haired Lysene, the man surprised by the term he thought had died with his leaving the Second Sons.

"One of the only men that walked through Tregar Ormollens brothel and never so much as glanced at any of the women."

The man winced, his eyes pained and down turned at hearing the name. It had been some time since he'd left his _wife_ with the merchant prince, but the ache was deep and festered with resentment. The chances of it fading completely were not in his favor.

Looking him over once more, Rhaenys felt lucky that their guard had not perished before she was of an age where she could absorb the information in the books that were at their previous homes. His accent, the color of his tunic and its sigil led her to uncover the man's lineage, or at least who he'd served before leaving Westeros.

"What is a man bearing the sigil of house Mormont doing in the free cities?"

If this man proved to be hostile, a supporter of Robert Baratheon, Rhaenys and Doreah at least had a chance to escape. The olive-skinned Targaryen would do no such thing, not with Dany being a mere lunge away from his grasp.

Daenerys only seemed to be slightly nervous at the man's presence here. Rhaenys took that as a sign that he'd made no aggressive moves towards her, but she would stay skeptical until his intentions were known.

"Ser Jorah Mormont." Slowly, Jorah moved off the bed to kneel before her. It was clear that he saw her reluctance to believe anything that spilled from his lips, but his eyes stayed on hers, resolute and determined.

"I have come to offer my services, my sword, and counsel. I shall protect you and Princess Daenerys and give my life for yours if need be." It wasn't a proper oath, for he should have laid his sword at her feet and the words were slightly off, but this was as close to proper as they would get.

Copper eyes bore into a deep ocean blue, unyielding, unbelieving.

"And what is it that you seek in return, Ser Jorah Mormont?" If Doreah was correct, and Jorah had indeed this _Bear of the Rhoyne_ , that meant he'd been in Essos for some time now. She had both heard and read that Northmen were not one to abandon their homelands. There was a reason he was here, and it didn't relate to protecting her and Dany.

A sad smile, small and riddled with regret, came over the man.

"Forgiveness Your Grace. I have dishonored myself, my family, and the entirety of the north. I will never again be the Lord of Bear Island, but I would like to atone for my transgressions. My actions put chains on two men, let me protect two members of the rightful royal family."

More questions filtered through her mind, most of which were not all that important to the situation. The one thing she truly needed to know was "Who sent you to us?"

Jorah reached slowly into his tunic, providing a scroll with the mark of a spider. Rhaenys took the offered parchment, opening it slowly, unsure of what she would find.

She read it through once, then twice more just to confirm was her eyes were seeing.

Relief swam over her, a warm feeling in her chest that came from knowing that even now he cared for her.

"If Uncle Ned thinks you trustworthy enough, then I have no argument against it."

Jorah looked rightfully confused about how she referred to the Warden of the North but made no mention of it.

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

He didn't understand it, didn't know if this was supposed to be something from the Old Gods or a conjuration of the loneliness settling into every fiber of his being.

Whatever it was, the dreams Jon had been having were becoming the pinnacle of what drove him forward. And he thought they _had_ to be dreams because the Targaryens were long gone from the world. It didn't matter, the only thing he wanted was for the day to pass so he could fall into them and actually be at peace each night.

A girl a few years his elder, dark brown hair with a stand of silver blonde that waved down her back, copper eyes that conveyed all the love and comfort he could ever only dream of. The smile of this maiden made Jon forget the status of his birth.

He knew that they were Targaryens too, because of the girl his age in the distance, running and playing with shadows he couldn't make out. This other girl had hair that marked her as a Valryian descendant, and violet eyes that few families in Westeros ever possessed.

Perhaps it was due to him learning of the more recent Targaryen lineage. Jon knew the dark-haired girl to be the deceased Rhaenys from her appearance, while the other was unknown.

No matter what brought it about, Jon welcomed the dreams. It hardly changed from each time he could recall them. A sun-bathed landscape, him being led by the hand of this imagined Rhaenys through the trees and fields. She talked throughout the entirety of the dream, and Jon either could not remember or could not hear what she said.

It didn't matter, Jon soaked in the peaceful atmosphere greedily.

As it always did, the dream faded with Rhaenys and the unknown Targaryen cuddled up to him at the base of a lemon tree. It was warm, in both a physical and emotional sense. As his mind drifted into the blank darkness before he would inevitably wake up, Jon was confused by some of the warmth staying beside him.

Grey eyes streaked with violet blinked at the ceiling as the summer chill swept through the cracks of his quarters. Being near the rest of the servants' quarters, his room was just another reminder of his position as the bastard of Winterfell. The hearth crackled as embers settled and cooled from no longer being aflame. Angling his head to the side, Jon saw that the sun was rising, and it was getting close to the time he needed to meet Ser Arthur.

The source of warmth beside him shifted, getting Jon to cast his eyes down.

With her hands pulled up and nearly hugging the warmth to herself, Arya stayed blissfully asleep next to her favorite brother.

The smile could not be kept away from his lips.

Few and far between were the times that he got to spend with Arya, their scheduled lessons keeping them busy and almost always at different sides of the keep. Lady Stark scolded the wild little girl for interacting with Jon, and while she said that it was because Arya was supposed to be in her lessons with Septa Mordane, Jon knew that it was because she was with him.

Twice he had seen from a distance, Lady Stark had gently coaxed her youngest daughter from Robb or Lord Stark and back inside to where she was supposed to be. His half-sister was not someone easily swayed or controlled. She did what she wanted, when she wanted to do it. It was still something that Jon couldn't explain, but Arya was the only one in Winterfell that could bring him out of his shell.

A few times now, when no one was around, Jon had given Arya a few basic lessons on swordplay. He suspected that both Ser Arthur and Lord Stark were aware of it, but there had been no reprimands or conversations regarding his interactions with Arya. The way that her eyes glimmered happily was thanks enough for his instruction.

Jon could hear the birds perched out on the walls cawing and chirping, reminding him of where he was supposed to be getting to. Shifting away from her was easy, but he did not want Lady Stark or anyone else discovering her here. It would only further the rift that had developed between him and the Stark family.

'Robb has not spoken to me in a fortnight. Sansa doesn't even bother to glare at me. Lord Stark has been so busy as of late that I'm not even sure he remembers I exist, and Lady Stark only deems me worth any attention if it means to demean me.' As things stood recently, Theon was the only high-born person in Winterfell besides Ser Arthur and Arya that acknowledged he lived there, and it was always a comment on his status or because of his constant brooding expression.

The eldest of Lord Stark's children had never looked down on him the way others often did, but as the months ticked by, he had certainly lessened his attempts to associate with Jon. Part of this was likely due to being trained separately because Lady Stark did not everyone to see the bastard besting the heir of Winterfell, another part was likely because Theon held the same high-born attitude.

Robb was kind to the small folk that surrounded their home, but there was no denying the heir still separated himself from them. Robb felt he was above them, even if only slightly.

Jon knew that Robb was expected to act as such. His half-brother was the one that would eventually listen to their concerns and act according to what he felt was the best course of action.

Pulling himself out of the furs laid atop his bed, Jon felt the warmth that his dream and Arya had given him fade away into nothingness like it was never there in the first place.

As Jon slid his boots onto his still sore feet, he thought about his future.

'Lord Stark has said that I would do well as a sworn sword for Robb, but is that something that _I_ want? Perhaps joining the Night's Watch like Uncle Benjen is the better way to go. Even a bastard like me can rise in rank at the wall.'

It was something to consider, another option that didn't mean staying here with the people that looked down on him daily.

'But unless my true parentage comes to light before then, I will never learn about my mother by standing atop the wall.'

He hadn't found anything out about that conversation between Lord Stark and Ser Arthur, nor had he pressed either for information. It still lurked in the back of his mind, festering like an infected wound that was only a minor inconvenience to his abilities. For now, he didn't want either man to know that he'd been eavesdropping.

Jon wanted to know where he came from, the identity of his mother, and father as well if his suspicions proved true.

Lord Eddard Stark was well known throughout the kingdoms, _the quiet wolf may seem cold, but there is no man more honorable than he_. Jon's existence seemed such an about-face from the Warden of the North's usual standard. Jon heard the stories of how the other Northern lords had been left scratching their heads.

Was he the child of Brandon Stark, Eddard Stark's elder brother? Was that why Lady Catelyn hated him so? It was a much more plausible thing, and Jon wasn't the only one to have thought this, the whispers of the smallfolk resonated with that train of thought.

It would give Jon a little more ground to claim Winterfell that way, as the northern lords would want to honor the man that had marched to confront the mad king about Lyanna Stark's kidnapping. Convincing King Robert to legitimize him would likely be simple as well, the man had been Eddard Stark's best friend since they were wards of Jon Arryn.

But taking the Lordship away from Robb was not something that Jon wanted to do. That would only lead to more negative attention.

What he wanted more than anything else, was to capture the feeling those dreams with Rhaenys gave him. Love, acceptance, happiness.

There were no wars he wouldn't fight, no distance he wouldn't travel to obtain it. Killing, shedding another's blood was not something Jon would ever want, but desperation has a way of forcing a person's hand.

"Arya, wake up. If your Lady mother catches you here, neither of us will hear the end of it." At least his little sister's attempts at spending time with him kept that desperation at bay for just a little while longer.

**-lineBreak-**

**Eddard Stark**

The hunt today was not truly expected to bring anything back, but it was a means for Ned to spend some much-needed time with Robb, Jon and Theon. They rode out of the Western gate, the Hunter's Gate, and into the distance.

Theon had taken to the riding lessons fairly well, or as well as he took to any instruction. When he came to Winterfell, he'd been as awkward on a horse as Arya was with acting the proper lady. The thought brought forth a bitter smile, thinking of how his daughter and sister had often been compared.

Grey eyes casting over, Ned saw Jon looking as agile on his mount as Lyanna ever had. The boy was proving to be just as capable as his mother. If there was ever a reminder of why he had made the right choice to taint his own name, it was watching how Jon seemed to exemplify the characteristics of his parents.

None of a similar age matched his skill on a horse. His skill with a sword, the ease in which he weaved through Ser Arthur's moderate strikes, could be written off as the skill of the instructor. Ned knew better. Rhaegar had moved in much the same way, turning on his heels and deflecting a sword like he was merely dancing with an opponent.

Ned and Arthur had talked over the trait that both Lyanna and Rhaegar had shared. A will of the hardest steel.

While Lyanna had wanted to prove that she could ride as well as any man, or shoot a bow just as accurately, Rhaegar had been known for his single-minded pursuits. Music, knowledge, swordplay, he was great at them all, even if fighting was only out of necessity.

Once that crown of Winter Roses had been placed in his sister's lap, the course was likely to have already been determined, and nothing could have changed it. If only Benjen hadn't helped Lyanna in her quest to be with Rhaegar, perhaps it would have been noticed that she'd left willingly, and the deaths that followed could have been avoided.

His eldest son Robb, looking the part of the Lord-to-be of Winterfell, was riding next to Theon and a short distance away from Jon. The distance between Jon and everyone else had not gone unnoticed. Arthur hadn't been needed to tell him it was happening.

Ned was looking to test the training the boys had gone through. Hitting a target with an arrow was much different than a living, moving creature. The sun had yet to penetrate through the thick canopy, keeping them largely unseen from a distance with the dark fur cloaks.

Jon stopped, his finger pointing out to the north. Theon and Robb slowed and looked, a smaller doe making its way through the lightly frosted forest. The boys looked back to Ned, silently asking if they were allowed to take the shot. After a nod, Robb notched an arrow and pulled back, his young arms struggling with the tension needed to achieve the distance required.

The doe ducked its head to the ground, the frosted grass the only source of food in the immediate area. Robb slowly released the breath held, eyes straining to focus on the point in which he wanted to puncture. Fingers releasing, the bowstring nearly swiped over his lips as it forced the projectile forward.

The quiet whistle hadn't registered for the creature, the arrow nearly skimming the back just above the base of its neck and sailing onward into the land beyond.

Theon quieted the snicker that only briefly resounded in his chest, pulling his own arrow back with an arrogance that had become well known around Winterfell.

His ward was older, and thus better able to handle the strength needed for his hands to not be shaking and ensure a better shot. Nearly a man grown, Theon still had much to learn, most of which was to take heed of his elder's advice. Theon didn't bother trying to still his breath, and the small sway it created was enough for his arrow to miss its mark on the doe's head.

Theon had been warned many a time to keep his boastful nature controlled, but the Iron-born heir seemed adamant to ignore this.

Jon wasted no time in pulling his Arrow back as Theon fumed over his missed shot. In a far quicker time, Jon loosed his arrow, striking the beast and piercing its lungs.

The deer tried to flee, prancing for only a few seconds before it fell to the ground.

"A good shot Jon." Ned praised earnestly.

Jon looked back, no emotion outwardly showing on his face. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Ser Arthur has instructed me well."

The words were unpleasant to hear. He could not remember the last time he heard the word _father_ from Jon, the passive-aggressive barbs were subtle and well placed. Ned made no comment, nor did he let it show just how Jon's detachment from the Stark family affected him personally.

But affect him it did.

Jon had been forced to believe that he was born from the drunken, post-battle celebration during the rebellion, with a woman that had meant nothing to Ned. His creation had not been out of love, not even out of duty, but only as a means of escape from the hard reality that was _war_.

Catelyn certainly hadn't helped matters.

Ned could not curtail his wife's efforts to make sure that Jon felt like an outsider, at least not as much as he wanted.

If Arthur was correct in his telling of Jon's thoughts, his wife needed to know the bare minimum. Jon could _not_ go off to the wall and live out his days. Not with his sister and Aunt across the Narrow Sea, under the protection of a man that Ned had been hard-pressed to accept back in the seven kingdoms unless it meant taking his head, waiting for the day that they could return home. To him… To their rightful throne.

How could he possibly word things in a way that would satisfy her curiosity about Jon's mother, without making it obvious that he was technically committing a crime with every breath Jon took?

He wasn't sure, but it needed to happen.

Varys had been right. They needed to make moves of their own, prepare for what was eventually going to happen. Oberyn would only be held at bay for so long. When he found Rhaenys, there was no doubt in Ned's mind that she'd seek out her brother as soon as she was able.

But what could he do? How did he prepare Jon for the inevitable? Rhaenys was _going_ to persuade her brother to be king, Ned had no delusions about that. Jon was a capable combatant already, and he would only become deadlier as he aged, but that did nothing to help his leadership skills.

First things first. Catelyn needed to be given the information necessary for her to see that the situation was serious enough that his lie was needed, without making her guilty of the same crime. Then perhaps, she might be able to give him and Arthur an idea of where to go from there.

Catelyn Stark was a smart woman and saw things from a less combat oriented stance in comparison to himself and Arthur Dayne. She was cunning in a way that no Northmen could claim. Her actions and words could be subtle but have a great impact on whatever situation she so desired.

Jon seemed to be the only topic that she lacked this subtlety on.

Once they got this deer back to Winterfell, Ned was going to drag Arthur and his wife to his Solar for a much-needed talk.

**END!**

**Alright people. I hope you didn't think that this was going to be all fluff and fix-it stuff.**

**This is Game of Thrones. People are going to die. Bad things are going to happen to good people.**

**Remember what Rhaegar says about prophecy from chp1. Isolation, betrayal, despair.**

**But there's always going to be those calm and fluffy moments in between.**

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Catelyn Stark – 296AC**

The sun descended, lowering its golden orange radiance beneath the tree line on the horizon to the west, and the miniscule warmth it provided the North fled with it.

 

 _The North_.  Her thoughts had been the most frequent companion this past year.  Ever since her Lord Husband came back from that day long hunting expedition with Robb, Theon and… _Jon._

 

A harsh land of vast fields and forests, where one could ride for an entire week along the roads and still not come across a single soul.

 

 _The North remembers._   A saying that she felt was both foreboding and comforting.  The people that resided in this land, they respected honesty and loyalty.  In the land of summer snows, betrayal and treachery was snuffed out. 

 

Here in the North, no one house could survive on their own through the blizzards.  _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._   Another of the things told to the children of the north, or the grown and elderly during times of misfortune and panic.  This one however, was mostly spoken inside of Winterfell.  Something that house Stark had said for centuries, their unofficial yet undisputed house words.

 

She knew them well, had learned quickly of the differences between the Riverlands and anything above the neck.  None of the words strung together helped her in this instance.

 

Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.  Catelyn thought she knew him inside and out.  He was the epitome of what a Northmen should be.  Honorable, honest, just, a man of action rather than spouting pretty words.

 

That image had not truly wavered even in the face of his return with a child born not of her womb. War was cruel and difficult, she understood that.  It was the fact that he expected her to raise the child alongside her own, and the silence over the entire situation that had initially set her ire upon him and the babe.

 

Her ire turned into a low yet ever-burning resentment towards Jon, her rational mind at war with both her faith and the ache in her heart.  The seven deemed bastardry a sin, and whether Jon has asked to be born in such a manner or not, his existence spat on the face of her gods.

 

If Ned had just kept the child at bay, Catelyn would have been perfectly happy even if she’d come to learn of the child later on.  A nobleman having a child out of wedlock was nothing strange.  The strange part came with how Ned handled it.

 

When she had been nearly commanded to meet Ned and Arthur in the Lord’s solar, the conversation left her confused and more than a little angry, hating the reminder of how Ned saw no difference between his trueborn and bastard.

 

_“This is a bad idea Ned.”  Arthur had stated the moment the door closed behind her._

_It had been nearly the hour of the bat, the children off to bed and the keep near silent.  The Dornishman’s lack of regard for formalities only adding to her suspicions of Jon’s mother.  Why else would the Sword of the Morning be here in Winterfell, if not to be near his nephew?_

_“Perhaps but given his musings as of late, I think it best to at least try.”  Quiet as they were speaking, the men’s voices still echoed off the stone walls.  The crackling fire in the hearth the only other sound in the room, adding a strange finality to the unknown topic._

_“What could possibly be so important, that we could not speak tomorrow Ned?”  She was irritated about the late-night summons, and it was odd for Arthur Dayne to be a part of a conversation regarding any important decisions to be made. At least, that’s how things had seemed before.  Ser Arthur seemed to already know what the conversation was about._

_Her husband released a sigh and when he looked towards her, Catelyn was most curious.  His grey eyes were soft, but his expression hard as stone.  It was his apologetic look about something that she would be required to obey, something that she may not like but ultimately would be for the better._

_“Truly Cat, I am sorry.  I believe that this had to be taken care of now, rather than wait.”_

_Her blue eyes were cast over to Arthur, she saw nothing could be gleamed from him as usual, his mask up and fully in place.  The former Kingsguard was never very talkative with anyone in Winterfell, the only people he seemed to hold at length conversations with were Ned and Jon._

_Her husband slid his hand over a few pieces of parchment on the desk he stood behind, glancing at them warily._

_“What do you think is to become of Jon in the future?”  She bristled without being able to help herself, nostrils flaring angrily and her pulse quickening.  Of **course** it was about him._

_Arthur scoffed from the side, seeming more alive and responsive then she could ever recall since his arrival here._

_“I told you Ned.  You should have had this conversation from the beginning or not at all.”  The glare she sent him was only met with cool indifference, as though the man **knew**_ _he’d have the last laugh, and it wasn’t even worth the time to recognize what she thought of it._

_Under her husband’s steely eyes, Catelyn took a few breaths to compose herself._

_“I imagine that the boy will eventually become a sworn sword to Robb.”  Much as she loathed to admit it, that would be a great boon for her son.  Having someone personally trained by the best sword in the realm was going to give others pause, should they ever think to strike against Robb or his allies._

_“At one point, Aye, I thought that to be for the best.”  Her brow rose.  Being that Jon was not of **her** blood, Catelyn had never asked about nor interfered in his life directly other than wanting to know about his origin or keep him away from the trueborn Stark children._

_“But that is not the case anymore, the winds are changing, slowly for sure, but changing all the same.”  His tone was assured but reluctant._

_“It would behoove you, to treat him better Lady Stark.”  Arthur spoke with a tone of ice, so unlike the heated blood that the Dornish were known for._

_Catelyn did her best to hold back a scathing reply, only barely managing.  She looked to Ned for support but found none, in fact it looked like her husband agreed._

_“He’s right Cat.”  If she felt that she could do so without trembling, Catelyn would have stormed out. Her body lightly shook in rage._

_“I know there is no love lost between you and Jon, nor can I truly blame you for it.”  Her husband continued, as soothing as he could manage with the serious topic that only seemed to have the purpose of dragging her through the mud._

_“Answer me this Cat.  You are a smart woman.”  Ned had turned to look at the crackling fire, the reddish glow reflecting ominously off of the single Grey iris that she could see._

_“What has history taught us about those who are oppressed because of a name they had no control over?  History, not the views of the seven.  What happens to a man that is seen as nothing more than the mistake of his father, rather than being loved and treated as close to an equal as possible?”_

_Her anger bled away for the most part under the minor praise. Ned had never treated her as the trophy that many noble men saw their wives as._

_His implication came after only a few moments thought._

_“They rebel…”  There were examples through each of the seven kingdoms.  The Blackfyres were the most well known, but the Greystarks were only one more example.  Anyone who felt appropriately slighted from the ones holding power over them, could join the cause willingly and enthusiastically._

_Even the rebellion that had brought Ned and Catelyn together was a prime example of this._

_“Aye.”  Ned turned to her then, but she didn’t know what to make of his expression.  Sad, happy, angry, proud, disappointed, all of it was there in equal measure._

_“I don’t expect you to love Jon the way you do Robb, or Sansa, or Arya.  One day Jon will leave Winterfell, and he will likely come into power of his own. When that happens, how do you think he would view us?  What comes after being told he is nothing but a stain against house Stark?  Being alienated for something not of his choosing?”_

_“Jon would never betray you!  You’re his father!”  The words were strange on her tongue, defending the boy she’d wished would be claimed by fever.  Ned merely rose a brow of his own, clearly just as surprised.  It settled moments later, and his next words were like walking away from the heat of fire and into the cold embrace of the dead of winter._

_“I am not certain he views me as such any longer.  My duties keep me busy, and his lessons take up much of the time we would see one another.  I have not heard the word father pass through his lips for a few years at least.  Where once I saw a distant hope for change, now I only see a cold resignation.”_

_It was Arthur that drove the conversation to a place that had left her confused and reeling ever since._

_“When the dust settles Lady Stark, how do you want him to view you and your children?  He could very well be your greatest ally, or most fearsome enemy.  As the keeper of the household, that decision is heavily placed in your hands.”_

_His violet eyes gave a glimmer of amusement, just as his lips quirked minutely._

_“Well, I suppose Arya will be just fine.”_

That last statement from Arthur Dayne still had her on edge.  _When the dust settles_.  What did they mean?  What were they hiding about the bas…Jon?  Neither of the men were likely to take a matter like his treatment so seriously unless something was afoot, likely involving lives, battles, wars, loyalties.

 

Perhaps it was none of these things, and she was simply reading too far into it, perhaps not and Ned was trying to make up for lost ground.  Whatever it was, Catelyn hadn’t been able to learn anything else.  The who, what, where, when, why, and how were all kept securely in the minds and memories of Eddard Stark and Arthur Dayne.

 

She been all but certain of who he was and where he came from before, but as Catelyn Stark watched Jon Snow ride out into the distance with 3 other men, she couldn’t help but reconsider everything she may have known about the events during the rebellion.

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

He should have been happy about the prospect of being given a chance to prove himself, leading a trio of men to find a couple of wildlings that had slipped away and were supposed to be hiding somewhere close to the wall.

 

Instead of what Jon knew he should be feeling, it seemed to him that this was the first step that the Stark’s would take in separating themselves from him.  Tracking them down may take as long as several months.  When he returned, surely they would just send him on some other task that either the Night’s watch or another Lord would have been closer to handling.

 

That was the way he saw it, especially with the way that Lady Stark _hadn’t_ been sending him glares over the last year.  Why bother trying to make someone feel like they didn’t belong, when you were just going to send them away?  It wasn’t worth her time.

 

He only wished he’d been able to see Arya before leaving.  Robb and Sansa hardly looked like they cared.

 

“A little young to be brooding my Lord.”  The deep voice carried through the quaint quarters granted to him in Castle Black. The winds carried through the opened door, being so close to a wall of towering ice, they were chilling even to a Northerner.

 

“I bear the name Snow, Commander Mormont.  I’m no lord.” Jon rose from the seat to look over to his host.  The man towered over most, strongly built with broad shoulders, and even with the man’s age he would doubt that most men would fancy fighting him.  The shaggy grey hair on his balding head and in his long beard were the only thing to contrast the black he donned, the uniform of the Night’s Watch.

 

The old bear came to the seat opposite Jon, by the hearth, and sat himself down slowly.

 

“A man is not determined by the name he holds.  If my life before taking the black hadn’t spelled that out, I’ve learned that lesson by far since.”  Jeor Mormont seemed to lose himself in memory for but a moment, before coming back to the conversation he’d started.

 

“Well then, Jon Snow, why has your father sent _you_ specifically with these men?”

 

“Lord Stark wishes for me to put the training undergone to test, I suppose.  It was not my place to question his motives.”  Jeor rose a brow at his guest, the tone and wording were strange to him.  Lord Eddard Stark may not be the most affectionate of fathers, but he knew the quiet wolf to be a loving father.  Benjen made that quite clear, even if the old bear hadn’t seen it himself before coming to the wall.

 

The _boy_ before him was different, and boy was an apt description. He could not have been more than 13, not with the stature, and little remnants of baby fat still clinging to his face.  That was not to say that the boy was hefty or not built for a fight, for he could tell that the bastard of Winterfell had practiced the sword long and hard.

 

 “Hmm, I suppose not. I will say that I was surprised when Lord Stark ordered we merely watch the surrounding area, rather than send a party to find these wildlings.”

 

“You would not be alone in that Lord Commander.  The men travelling with me voiced their own concerns as well, once we left Winterfell.” Jon’s voice was hollow, something that Jeor felt no boy of that age should possess.  Sullen, quiet and brooding seemed to be his default expression, from the little he’d seen.  It was a far cry from the boisterous and loud boys from his home, and a fair amount of the north in general.

 

From what Jeor could tell, Jon Snow held much of his father in him outside of looks.  The lad was blunt and direct with his words, quiet and observing in nature.

 

“Concerns I presume you’ve already dealt with?”  Jeor could see it in his eyes.  Sullen, quiet and brooding the lad may be, but there was most definitely a wolf in there. He’d seen it before with Rickard, Brandon, even Benjen on an occasion or two.

 

“Aye.”  Jon did not bother elaborating.  Jeor didn’t need to hear of how the men had wanted the command structure to be shifted.  When Jon had said nothing to either relent or present his own argument for staying in command, a man of the guard originally from the Westerlands, offered a duel to resolve the issue once and for all.  The man had three small cuts, painful but not debilitating in any way.

 

They had looked at him differently then, after beating one of the better men-at-arms so easily.  The men saw their lord in him then, when he didn’t brag or yell, but merely said they were to continue once the injured man was bandaged.

 

“Good.  I’d hate to mutinous behavior rewarded in the North. Common as it may be elsewhere, we Northmen are different.”  Jeor thought better of saying what else was on his mind.  Overall, the Starks had been what held the North together.  They were the ones to set the precedent of honesty and loyalty so long ago, with the Kings of Winter.

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Daenerys Targaryen**

She wanted to think her _sister,_ for Rhaenys could be nothing else to her, could not possibly be telling the truth.  Even though Viserys had been cruel, he remembered so much more of their homeland than the olive-skinned Targaryen.

 

“But…Viserys always said that the Starks were the Usurpers dogs.”  Dany argued, sitting out on a balcony of a modest room in Tyrosh.

 

She had no personal knowledge of any Stark, only stories that her brother had told her before his madness had him taking Ser Oswell’s life.  According to him, they were northern savages that needed to be put down like the dogs they had as their sigil.

 

“I tell you with utmost confidence Dany, the Starks are nothing like Robert Baratheon.”  Leaning against the railing, letting the sun set over the top half of her body, Rhaenys looked towards Dany with nothing but love. How her brother could have felt such disdain for a kind soul like her Dany didn’t know.

 

It had always been a topic that Rhaenys avoided bringing up when travelling with Viserys, and since then hadn’t really come up in conversation if it hadn’t been for Ser Jorah.

 

He had spoken about Ned Stark with clear respect in his tone and eyes.  The former Lord of Bear Island had come clean about his crimes, and how he knew that the Lord of Winterfell had only done his duty.

 

“How are you so sure?” Dany continued prodding the subject. She was of an age where things needn’t be hidden from her any longer.  If they were to return to their home country one day, she needed to know all she could.

 

Rhaenys paused, obviously thinking along the same lines as Dany had been.  Telling the whole truth meant tearing down the family in which they were birthed into, of how the Mad King had only escalated the rebellion. But it was better to do it now, let her adjust to the knowledge.

 

“Do you know why the Rebellion came to be?”  Rhaenys asked cautiously.  Everyone at least knew some of the details, but most held on to the edited version spread by the now crowned stag.

 

“Rhaegar, he kidnapped Lyanna Stark.  Then the Usurper raised his banners in search of his betrothed.”  Rhaenys winced at the simplified version being the one Dany had been told.

 

“No Dany.  That’s not what happened.”  Rhaenys shook her head, long wavy curls of such a dark brown they were almost black if not for the sun shining on her.

 

Violet eyes narrowed in thought.  That was how everyone said it happened, and she didn’t know how all those people could be wrong about something so monumental.

 

“My father Rhaegar, he fell in love with Lyanna, and she was in love with him.  Ser Oswell told me once, about how my mother nearly died giving birth to her son.  According to him, having multiple lovers isn’t such an uncommon thing in Dorne, so my mother had no issue with him marrying Lyanna.  I only wish they had done it publicly, rather than running away together.”

 

The immediate question was expected.

 

“Married?  Rhaegar married Lyanna Stark?”  Dany’s violet eyes were wide, having only heard of how her brother had kidnapped the she-wolf.  Taking what was _his_ , as a dragon should.

 

With a smile, Rhaenys nodded.  “He did. Her father had betrothed her to Robert Baratheon, but she didn’t love him, so they ran away together and got married in secret.”

 

If things had been different, Dany wondered what living with the Stark woman would have been like. Viserys held such polarizing views compared to Rhaenys.  Where he saw the Starks as Northern savages acting as the Usurpers dog, Rhaenys saw them as honest and good people.  She wasn’t sure which was true, or if it were something in between. 

 

Dany also had to wonder how she could be so sure of her view.  Had she met the Starks, or any Stark?  The person Rhaenys talked about most, that wasn’t already with them at some point, was the man she said was to be their king.  Dany assumed she meant Viserys and envisioned that one day her brother would turn into the kind man Rhaenys spoke of.

 

“Lyanna’s brother Brandon, he heard about her leaving and assumed that she’d been kidnapped. He went to your father, demanding she be returned and for Rhaegar to answer for his crime.  He was arrested and charged with treason.  Rickard Stark was called to the Red Keep to answer for the charges brought between my father and Brandon Stark.”

 

Rhaenys paused, Dany waiting with baited breath from the story.  The tone of this story was like none she’d ever been told before.  Rather than the brutal take down of her family, this tale sounded more like the romantic tragedies.  Ones where a forbidden love was kept in secret, and those left unaware had paid with their lives.

 

“Dany, you have to understand something.”  Daenerys looked into those copper eyes, wary of breaking the view of their family.

 

“Your father was not well. Just as Viserys had his bouts of anger, your father had his paranoia.  All in the seven kingdoms knew of how the king fared, so Rickard Stark demanded a trial by combat.  It was granted, but your father chose _fire_ as his champion.  Brandon Stark was held by rope around his neck, watching as his father was burning. Grandfather had a sword laid before Brandon, saying that if he could reach it, Rickard could be saved.”

 

Dany didn’t like this story anymore, but she wouldn’t turn away or ask Rhaenys to stop.  She was learning, of the events that lead to the rebellion, of her family, of why so many houses in Westeros had wanted the Targaryens dead.

 

“The sword was just out of reach, and Brandon strangled himself to death trying to reach it and save his father.  The king wasn’t satisfied, and called for the heads of Uncle N-“, Rhaenys had to pause once more.  Dany would not understand the relation just yet, so she had to correct herself.

 

“He called for the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.  Jon Arryn refused, and they raised their banners in revolt.” 

 

Now Dany understood, or at least had the information to process and see the other side.  What she couldn’t and wouldn’t condone, was how the usurper wanted to kill children for the fault of their family.

 

“When my father saw that the war was turning away from him, he had Lyanna moved to a tower in Dorne, and prepared to have my mother, Aegon and myself moved there as well.  She still sick and could not endure the travel, Aegon was too young to be away from her for so long.  Mother never kept to the idea of using a wet nurse.  My father had me moved to Dorne, hoping that he’d be able to bring them shortly after.  When the sack of King’s Landing happened, I was with Lyanna in the tower of joy.”

 

“What was she like?” Dany blurted out, unable to help herself.  This woman had captured the heart of a man that could have had nearly any woman in the seven kingdoms, she had to be something special.

 

“I remember a few times when she would play with me, letting me pet the horse brought with her.  She was beautiful, and kind.  She loved playing with me until her belly swelled and kept her from going down the tower steps.”

 

“She was pregnant?” The prospect of another family member still alive had hope bursting through every pore of her body. 

 

“Yes.”  Rhaenys answered simply, a far-off look coming over her.  Dany recognized it as the look of dreaming of the ‘what if’s’.  She knew that feeling well.  Rhaenys continued, still lost in her thoughts and memories.

 

“When Uncle Ned came, Lyanna was in labor.  One thing I learned of the Stark’s Dany, they will go to the ends of the earth and beyond for their family, their pack.  I remember his tear stained smile, how he let me hold my baby brother, how he did his best to comfort me when I could hear the men outside fighting.”

 

Dany was not as well learned on succession as Rhaenys, but that was merely due to the age difference. If what Rhaenys said was true, and Dany had no reason to not believe, all of Viserys’ claims of being the true king were false.

 

“What happened to him? Your brother I mean.”  If he was her brother, then he should have been with them, shouldn’t he?  It wasn’t safe for him to stay in Westeros.

 

“Uncle Ned took him, claimed Jon as his own son.”  So that was his name.  The name of her nephew and king.  It sounded familiar to her for some reason, like she should know it.  Not only because it was common, but like she should have a face to put to the name.

 

Dany hoped that Jon was nicer than her brother, more like Ser Willem Darry, or Ser Oswell. 

 

“He’s lonely Dany.” Rhaenys said, her voice turning solemn. Daenerys watched her, trying to think of how Rhaenys would know anything about a boy across the sea.

 

“I see him in my dreams. The same ones I saw you playing with that boy and girl from Braavos.  I talk to him, but he can’t hear me yet.  He hasn’t spoken to me so far, but I can see it in his eyes.  It’s eating at him, being made to feel like an outsider with people that should love him unconditionally.  All because the lie keeps him safe.”  Dany wanted to deny such a thing was possible, seeing a person in your dreams and having it not just be a conjuration of the mind.

 

She had a hard time doing that, especially after Rhaenys said she could see Dany playing with those children.  Those were dreams that Dany cherished, the ones that took from the three times she had played with those other children when she was younger.

 

If Rhaenys claimed to see her brother, Dany believed her.  They were the blood of the dragon, it was said that magic ran through their very veins. 

 

“We’ll see him one day, won’t we?”

 

“Of course we will.  I promised to love him for all of our days, that’s hard to do from afar.”

 

No matter how Rhaenys meant that statement, it was nothing that Dany wasn’t already acquainted with. Viserys had proclaimed that she would be married to him one day, that it was the way of the dragon.  She was curious however, if Rhaenys intended to wed the king, her half-brother.

 

She could vaguely recall Rhaenys telling her of the dreams in which she and Dany were queens of the seven kingdoms.  Were these dreams a sort of vision into events yet to unfold?  Was Dany to marry this unknown family member as well?  More so, would she be happy in doing so?

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Oberyn Martell**

It felt like a lifetime ago that he had last stepped through these streets.

 

Essos was a place to taste the exotic, sample the sweet or spicy favors that Westeros lacked.  Perfumes, silks, women, knowledge, all of these things had a certain color to them that the Prince of Dorne liked.

 

Of course, he had found a man or woman in any place he found himself in, and each experience was a joy. Perfumes were never something he took to using personally, but he couldn’t deny that there was an allure of someone who used just the right kind and just the right amount.

 

But this expedition across the narrow sea was not for pleasures.

 

The brothels were given only the smallest of glances, merchants ignored completely as he stepped through the paved streets.  The Tyroshi were so heavily involved in slavery that Oberyn thought the city would fall without the practice.  It was an abhorrent concept to him, as free spirited as he was.

 

If the slave trade was ever somehow outlawed here, the pear brandy and armor smiths would not be able to keep the city afloat.  It would end with blood painting the walls and roads, flowing like a river flooded by a storm after the slaves lead a revolt.

 

His brother Doran was a fool for keeping him from looking into this matter sooner.  The moment that Oberyn heard of the darker-skinned young woman accompanying Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen, he had wanted to set out and find them.

 

The ruling Prince had wanted revenge for their sister Elia and her children, but he was quelled by Jon Arryn upon the return of the remains of Lewyn Martell.  Oberyn was not as easily placated by the words relayed from the Lord of the Vale, now hand to _King_ Robert Baratheon.

 

Tywin Lannister, and the two under his command, Ser Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch would pay.  If it proved true that Rhaenys still lived, Doran would fall in line quickly and pledge his more support to the cause, however hidden and muted it may be.

 

Oberyn knew his brother to be a cautious man, but the treatment of innocents in the rebellion could not go unanswered.  If the fat stag or Doran would not act, then he would find a way to enact his vengeance himself.

 

How had the rest been so easily fooled?  How did they not question the movements of Ned Stark once the throne had been claimed by the heir of the Stormlands?

 

The Red Viper knew it well, the drive to protect one’s sister.  He and the wolves of Winterfell apparently held that in common.  The quiet wolf was no different.  Ned Stark had marched to war with the ferocity of his sigil after his sister’s disappearance, and the death of his father and brother.

 

Even though they were on opposite sides, Oberyn could not deny the righteous reasoning that led Ned Stark to the field of battle, spilling blood as easily as tipping a cup and watching the Dornish red spill.  Justice and honor had failed the Stark’s.  He could not help but sympathize with the Lord of Winterfell, reluctant as he was to do so.

 

From King’s Landing, Ned Stark had travelled to Dorne in search of his sister.  Rhaegar had been dead and buried by then, and yet no one questioned why three _kingsguard_ were found to be guarding the tower of joy.  The Mad King and the crown prince were both dead, the she-wolf had been said to be kidnapped.

 

Even if Arthur Dayne was a close friend of Rhaegar, the oath that the sword of the morning had taken would not have meant he should be protecting the woman he had supposedly raped while the Dragon Prince left for battle.

 

No, Rhaegar was not that kind of man, and it only made more sense once Arthur left with Ned Stark.

 

A source of Oberyn’s had told of the day that Ned Stark and Arthur Dayne made it to Starfall, something else that the entire realm had overlooked.  Ned Stark had a child in his arms, so the theory that it was Ashara’s was false, as the same source had seen Arthur leave empty handed upon his last visit.

 

It was a good story, but not good enough to fool him.  The bastard of Winterfell was not Ashara’s, nor was he Ned Stark’s son like he claimed. That boy was undoubtedly the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.  What remained to be proven, was whether the boy was _actually_ a bastard at all.  Oberyn had his doubts on that.

 

“Where are you hiding…?” He whispered, looking through the courtyard that connected each section of the city.  Taverns, inns and houses were scattered all over the city, there was no _one_ area to put emphasis on. But if he were a betting man, which he was, Oberyn would guess somewhere along the outskirts of the city.

 

It would be close enough to merchants for supplies, but far enough out that they could leave quickly and not be noticed by too many.  The island city was not overly large.

 

Last he had heard, they were in Braavos, Daenerys and Rhaenys accompanied by fair-haired girl around his niece’s age.  Even though the King knew that the daughter of the Mad King was here, he would not come into any trouble. Viserys not being seen with them, odd as that was.

 

His features let him blend in across the sea, darker hair and skin, sharp nose and dark eyes.  He had forgone the usual quality of clothing in order to keep with the prospect of just being another face in the crowd.

 

None would think him out of place.  Oberyn had been to the city years ago, and his memory served to keep him from looking around like some wandering fool.

 

He was already walking to the northern part of the city, so he would start there and work his way around, listening and questioning as carefully as he could.  His goal was not to arouse suspicion, but to offer his aid. Putting a target on their backs would do him no good.

 

“Mmmm hey there tall dark and handsome.”  A voice said from a short distance away.

 

Oberyn let his cock start to do the thinking, and turned towards it, wanting to see the face attached to that lusty tenor. 

 

She was young, fair of hair and sported light blue eyes.  Her frame thin yet not scrawny, a sign that she was at least able to feed herself properly, but still dressed as the slave whores did in this part of the city. He was surprised by the advance, as he was dressed as a man that didn’t have much to his name.

 

That was the moment he saw her a short distance away.  The _whore_ quickly forgotten.

 

Shorter in stature, a full figure that reflected much of the women in Dorne, dark hair and copper eyes. She hid the streaks of silver hair well, but not well enough that it escaped his view, a few strands blowing in the wind and catching his eye.

 

 

She was beautiful, just like he knew she would be.

 

Elia would be so proud to see her.  Perhaps not of the circumstance in which she found herself in, but the fact that she was surviving with so little help and taking care of another at the same time.

 

She was watching Oberyn from her peripheral, the woman that was still trying to talk to him likely the companion that he’d heard about.

 

From the look of it, Rhaenys didn’t recognize him.  He couldn’t fault her for that, as the last time he’d seen her, Aegon had only just been born the day before.

 

“If you want a go at my friend there, you’ll need me to give you a little prepping first.”

 

Oberyn wanted to scream and rage at how his niece was acting the part of a common whore, but he could tell that’s all it was.  An act. Without turning towards the commoner woman trying to entice him into bed, Oberyn spoke to her quietly.

 

“My name is Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne and uncle to Rhaenys Targaryen.”  Her eyes could not have gone from the fake show of lust to wide and surprised in a shorter amount of time.

 

“I will give you every piece of gold and copper I have on me and then some if you bring my niece my to speak with me.”  The crowd continued to walk around them as the girl eyed him curiously, before she quietly walked over to Rhaenys and whispered in her ear.

 

His niece was alive. His hunch was right all along. Doran was going to be sobbing at their feet in regret, wishing he’d been willing to go out and search for them years ago.

 

The reign of the stag was going to end, and Oberyn was looking forward to claiming his kills.  They would die slowly, painfully, and there was nothing that Tywin Lannister could do about it.  For he would meet the same fate for being the one to issue the order.

 

When Rhaenys started to step towards him hesitantly, Oberyn gave her the truest smile he’d felt in years, opening his arms to embrace his long-lost niece.

 

She sped into him once she saw the trusting, loving, relieved look on his face.  The wetness in his eyes was nothing he felt ashamed of. Tears slowly dripping down his cheek were only the sign that he was genuine, that he was happy for her being alive.

 

“I am not much of a religious man, but I prayed that I was right.  That you were still alive Rhaenys.”

 

Arms wrapped around his torso, her head hardly coming up to his chin.

 

“I am alive uncle.  I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I could come back and reveal myself.  I never meant to cause you pain.”

 

With part sob, part laugh, Oberyn placed a kiss on her silky dark hair, not caring for a moment at the strange glances he received from those passing around him.  He was happy.

 

“You must be as fierce as Nymeria herself to have persevered.”

 

Rhaenys rested her chin against his chest, looking up to him with copper eyes that so reflected her mother.

 

“I can’t claim to be the commander that the warrior queen was, but I _will_ be a queen that one shall not want to trifle with.”

 

Fierce, adaptable, beautiful.  Yes, Elia would most definitely be proud of her daughter.

 

“I imagine that Dorne will be only the first to bow to your might, _my queen._ ”

 

He took great pleasure in calling her that.

 

“If it were a race, I imagine the North might be hard to beat uncle.”

 

Oberyn pulled his head away, searching her eyes.

 

“The boy in Winterfell. You know of him?”

 

“My brother Jon. Trueborn and noble.  _My_ king.”

 

There was much to be discussed, much to be planned.  Near the top of that list was her knowledge of her _brother_.  She knew that he was no bastard, Oberyn was looking forward to hearing the tale. Once a plan of sufficient merit came about, Oberyn would venture into the cold wastes of the north.

 

He and Eddard Stark needed to have words.  The man was of no kin to him personally, barely an ally through blood, but Rhaenys was a different story if her tone was anything to go by.

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

One moment. 

 

That was all it took for the pair of wildlings to bring down the man that had tried to oust Jon as the leader of their expedition north.  Weeks of searching lead to that moment, and it was a bittersweet triumph.

 

Jon had succeeded in his duty, but at the cost of a life under his command.

 

It didn’t matter that the man had strayed from the plan that was agreed upon, he was still dead, and it was still under Jon’s watch.

 

He walked through the darkened halls of the Queensgate, the castle holding them on their apparent attempt to find a hole to scurry their friends through a fabled hole in the wall.

 

Dark did not seem to properly describe it.  Desolate, burnt, ravaged were only some of the things he could think of that came to mind.

 

Half of wood and half of stone, the Queens gate was probably once a sight to behold, when the Night’s Watch was at its best.  As things stood, the watch only had the men to barely maintain 3 of the castles along the wall.  The Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch-by-the-sea.

 

He needed a moment alone to gather himself.  5 wildlings total, with 3 dying in the fight before the last 2 had been captured. Lord Stark’s orders had been clear. Bring back as many as possible for questioning before execution.  They needed to know where the wildlings were getting through, how many had done so already if it were possible to know and were there any other areas they were looking at exploiting.

 

Something primal was bringing him down this corridor, something he couldn’t explain.  The double doors of heavy ironwood at the end were the only thing in the hall.  Yet Jon walked as though unseeing of it all, lost in the memory of seeing the man under his command having his head split open.  He’d been told to keep the helmet on when they were moving, yet he’d refused to listen to a mere boy that was only _playing_ at command.

 

The doors were pushed open easily, something Jon wouldn’t have expected from the length of time being unused and the size and material of its build.

 

Snow laid across the decaying desk and floor near the back window, the remaining light of the day fading quickly.

 

It was the shelves built into the wall that Jon found himself walking towards, like a moth to a flame.

 

The soot was caked onto every surface, yet nothing seemed to have _actually_ burned, everything was as solid as it should have been if only the elements had been brought inside.  It was strange to say the least.

 

The books along the lower shelves were blackened and likely unreadable, not that Jon made the attempt.  He was too occupied within himself.

 

His body acted of its own accord as he wondered just how the death of the guard would come back to haunt him.  Would Lord Stark be furious?  Would Lady Stark use this as a means to be rid of him even quicker?  What would Ser Arthur say?  His instructor was hard, not very lenient when it came to the lives of men.

 

His gloved hand brushed against something along a higher shelf.  The settling cold seemed to avoid this object entirely, bringing his focus to it.

 

It was rather large, a strange egg shape that looked like metal.  The black soot was less caked onto it than anything else.

 

Jon picked it off the shelf, weighing it in his hands as his eyes scanned it over.

 

It seemed like an egg of some sort of beast but had to be an ornament of some kind due to the metallic shine.  Folded over one another were what appeared to be scales, but the only thing Jon knew to have scales like that were the dragons of old.  And the world had not seen a single Dragon egg for such an age that they were nearly a mythical thing.  Valyria likely held remains of some, but the doom had claimed that area of Essos long ago and the other scaled beasts of the world did not come from eggs this large.

 

Whatever it was, Jon liked having the weight of it in his hands, a sort of calm coming over him in holding it.  The lining of his cloak had a large pocket, and the ornamental egg slid into it perfectly.

 

Jon turned around, heading back the way he came.  They would be leaving the Queensgate in the morning, taking the long ride back to Winterfell.

 

His wildling captives had been tied together and then to a post in what had once been the kitchen, just to make sure they wouldn’t have a way to escape.  The frantic look in their eyes unsettled him, it was like they’d stared death itself in the face and hardly made it out to tell the tale.

 

Even though he’d been given this task by his fath…Lord Stark, Jon still only longed for the dreams of the dark-haired girl with copper eyes, the silver-haired girl with violet eyes, cuddling up to him against a lemon tree in what appeared to be a land of never-ending southern summer.  Not being able to converse with them wasn’t important.  It was the smiles, the peace he felt from being beside them that mattered.

 

 

**END!**

**After next chapter, things won’t be as time skippy.  Much to cover, much to do.  Villains to build and plots to scheme.**

**Where is Viserys I wonder…**

**I haven’t been naming the chapters so far.  But if I did…the next one would be _Kissed by fire_.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lied about the kissed by fire thing. Decided there was other stuff I wanted to do first.

**Arya**

As much as she told her father and mother that she understood, she truly didn’t.

 

Why was it _Jon_ that had to be sent on these missions of scouting and apprehending deserters or wildlings?  He was the same age as Robb, yet never had he been sent on anything like it. Robb stayed with the family, taking his lessons in swordplay and history, preparing to one day be the Lord of Winterfell.

 

It was plain to see that Jon was not well liked by mother or Sansa, even if it had gotten better as of late. Jon was a bastard, as she’d been told on more than one occasion, but why was that so important to her mother and other people?  If anything, it should be father that was blamed and not Jon.

 

Jon was her brother, bastard or half-brother, it didn’t matter to her.  He was kind and understanding, listening to her when she ranted about Sansa and Jeyne being stupid and mean.  With him, she could learn to fight with a sword.  Needlework and poetry were nothing she wanted to have a part in.

 

In short, Arya missed him. 

 

She wanted to spend more time playing and learning from him.  But those chances had been small lately.  Father had Jon out on yet _another_ report of people heading south of the wall that shouldn’t be.  This time though… it had been serious enough that Ser Arthur had gone along.

 

The Sword of the Morning was a strange man.  Whenever Jon was in the room, Arya had noticed that he always was looking at or around Jon if not otherwise engaged, almost like he was wary of anyone around him. Like a sworn sword watching the back of the one they had sworn themselves to.

 

If the rumors were true, Ser Arthur probably only acted like that because Jon was his nephew.

 

He wasn’t mean whenever she spoke with him, but the knight always seemed reluctant to be near her for some reason.

 

Having snuck out of her lessons with Septa Mordane, there was only one place that Arya felt she wanted to be.

 

With her hand sliding against the stone walls, her steps carefully taken so that she made as little noise as possible, Arya descended the stairs to the lower level of the great keep.  Her destination was just another reminder of the unfair treatment her favorite brother received.

 

Making way to the mid-level platform, Arya kept to the corner where the light was most obscured. There were a few empty rooms here that she could stow away in, if she were close to being found.  While the wind blowing through the scarce cracks was chilled, the wall at her back staved off the shiver that she’d otherwise experience. The fire in the hearths and the hot springs beneath Winterfell helping to make her home comfortable.

 

Arya could hear muffled voices somewhere around another corner from where she currently was, likely one of the store rooms.  She was almost thankful to Sansa for once, because the braided bangs would have likely fell to cover her eyes otherwise, as she leaned to peek into the room.

 

There was no one there, and the voice was most definitely in the same place from what she could tell. With quick and soft steps, she ran to the other side and down the next set of stairs.  From here on, the chances of her being found or tattled on where small.

 

Since the lower level being that of servants, maids or cooks, the odds of her getting scolded dropped significantly thanks to her being a Stark.  It wasn’t nice to use her position in that way, as her father always said that you should treat others with respect, but it wasn’t like she was flaunting it.

 

With the time of day, there shouldn’t be anyone down on this floor unless they were coming from outside, and the door was covered partially by the stone wall.  So, _if_ someone came in, Arya would still have time to scamper out of view.

 

Once she came out of the staircase, Arya turned left and made her way to the far side with strides as long as she could manage.  The halls down on this floor had little in the ways of decoration, bare stone walls, lesser quality materials in nearly everything around her.  The doors were not the same heavy wood, thinner, some cracked or missing parts of it.  The place holders for some of the torches were rusted through age, some hanging precariously from the wall as though they would fall at any moment.

 

She hated that Jon had to be down here, away from the _true Starks_.  But if she were being honest, she liked the solitude it gave.  No one bothered you down here.  She and Jon could spend hours together with no one having a clue.  If she was to be without her favorite brother, at least she could spend some time in his room, surrounded by the few things he owned.  One in particular.

 

The door to his chamber was only in slightly better shape than the rest.  It at least didn’t have cracks or holes, but it was still of lower quality than her own.

 

It pushed open with a small creak, and Arya only opened it enough for her to slip inside before shutting it gently.

 

Turning around and facing the room, Arya breathed deep.  Pine, horses, earth, snow, it smelled like him.  Jon didn’t have much, a desk that truly had no use here as Jon never used it. The hearth gave no warmth, as Jon had been gone for a while now, but Arya didn’t mind.

 

She grabbed the extra cloak that hung on the back of his chair at the desk.  It was of decent quality, furs of grey and black so large that Arya was swimming in it.  She pulled it tighter around herself, as much for the warmth as it was to push away that ache of wishing he were here.

 

His bed sat against the back wall, under the poorly sealed window.  The furs on it were still laying thrown about, none of the maids having come to make his bed for his return.  Perhaps they would once there was word of him coming back, but she wouldn’t bet on it. Jon did things on his own, and he seemed to be okay with it being that way in some respects.

 

It was the chest at the foot of his bed where her attention stayed.  After taking a step forward, Arya looked back to the door and decided that it needed to be bolted if she were to go hold the secret that Jon had shared with her.  With the door taken care of, Arya jumped over to the chest with eager grey eyes.

 

She couldn’t believe what he’d shown her.

 

It took some effort, but Arya managed to pull the chest away.  The floorboard nearest the wall, a few inches away from the bed post, there was a small crease where one could pull from.  It lifted with some effort, trying to get a good enough grip.  While Arya could manage with her hands, Jon had to use a dagger as his fingers were too wide to fit.

 

There, sitting in the hole was the treasure and secret that Jon and Arya shared.  The metallic looking dragon egg.  With a careful grip, Arya lifted it out, putting the board back in its place.

 

Arya sat on the bed, falling to her side and staring at the egg in amazement.

 

Her brother had found the egg at the Queensgate along the wall.  He’d been skeptical of it _actually_ being a dragon egg on his return, but a few hours in the library had ended that. 

 

In a section of the library that saw less use then others, Jon told her that he found a book that detailed the dragons of old and the known eggs at the time.

 

It was easy to figure out where it came from after that.

 

Queen Alysanne Targaryen and her dragon _Silverwing_ had journeyed up to the wall, where the castle once known as Snowgate was renamed Queensgate.

 

The book spoke of Silverwing and Vermithor becoming a mated pair at some point that no one was sure of. There was no other reasonable explanation.  The egg must have been laid and either forgotten or hadn’t been seen, and whoever was in the castle at the time kept it.  The author of the book wasn’t able to be read thanks to the poor upkeep of that section, but it had said that Silverwing was named from the metallic gleam of her scales, which was exactly what the egg looked like.

 

Brushing her hand along the scales, Arya wondered if the egg was truly as empty of life as Jon thought. Dragons were supposed to magical creatures that lived for centuries.  So why couldn’t that magic keep the egg alive until the right conditions made it hatch?

 

Jon didn’t agree with her, as the book he read said that the eggs were warm to the touch, warmer than a person.  But the egg was cold for her, like touching a blade that had been covered in snow and ice. Still, Arya wanted to hope that the egg could still hatch, that her dream of one day seeing a dragon would come true.

 

She had no delusions about becoming a dragonrider if that were to ever happen.  Everyone knew that dragons only let those of Valryian blood ride them.  While only stories now, since the last dragons were long dead, there was plenty of history to be sure of it. 

 

Arya smiled to herself for a moment, as an exciting thought came to her.

 

Jon had said that the egg felt a little warm to him, but nothing like what the book described.  He hadn’t given it any more thought.  But Arya had.

 

The egg was cold to her, but Jon could feel _something_ from it.  It could have been from his time so much further north than Winterfell, and his idea of warm was off.  It was well known that being at the wall was a different kind of cold.  Arya didn’t think that was it.

 

It was only in this room, or her own, where her thoughts would wander this way.  Arya couldn’t help but wonder about Jon’s mother.  If it truly was Ashara Dayne like so many assumed, was there some distant Valryian blood in her brother that had him feeling that minor warmth from the egg?

 

Could he possibly hatch the egg and be a dragonrider?

 

Probably not.  She never liked the history lessons that she was forced to attend and could hardly pay attention to them for more than a few minutes at a time, but the thought was there all the same.  She’d heard a time or two, of how Dorne was different than the other kingdoms.  Something about the spicy food, and how bastards were a much more common and accepted thing there.

 

And all it would take was a single part of his distant heritage to have that Valryian connection. Perhaps there had been a babe born that wasn’t from the suspected parents?  It would have helped in that moment, if she had paid more attention to the family lines of the Noble houses.  If only Septa Mordane wasn’t so _boring._

 

With a huff, Arya sat up and clutched the cold egg to her.  She wanted Jon to hurry back.  There wasn’t even a single part of her that thought Jon might get hurt, he was trained by the best swordsman alive, and made Robb and Theon look like fools on the few times she saw them sparring.

 

“He’ll be fine.”  Arya said, rubbing the egg a little more pointedly. She didn’t know why she did it, only that it felt right.

 

She was going to continue believing that the egg would hatch, and that somehow, Jon was going to be the one to do it.

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Danaerys Targaryen**

 

There was much that had changed since leaving Viserys.  The most welcome part was not having to fear ‘waking the dragon’ as he’d call it. When her brother would go off on his anger filled tangent, often striking herself or Rhaenys.  It had taken quite some time to get used to it, and longer yet to not shy away from any man in fear of the abuse they might deliver.

 

But she was managing, learning to be strong from Rhaenys and Doreah, learning patience from Ser Jorah. He had scared her mind still the night he appeared.  Even after he set his sword down, pleading that he meant no harm.  She hadn’t believed him at first, and why would she?  Dany was just a young girl alone in a secluded basement turned home.

 

There were plenty of stories heard throughout the streets near the brothels, where sellswords often spent their earned coin.  After killing the man they were hired for, any woman left unguarded in their presence was often raped.  The idea of that revolted her.  To be turned into nothing more than a slave for the pleasures of the one more powerful.

 

_A dragon is not a slave._

 

She’d heard it over and over again from both Rhaenys and Viserys, but with a different meaning behind for the words.

 

For Viserys, she imagined that it was a way for him to feel powerful, in control of things when in reality he had none.  He had no crown, no army, no fighting skill, and the temper of an entitled child.  He expected his name to make everyone bow down to him.  In most ways, she was glad to be away from him.  But he was also family, and there Rhaenys had battered her with the idea that family was important.

 

Rhaenys on the other hand had often whispered that same phrase to herself, and had told Dany that it was because she had to remind herself that Viserys had no power over her. While the world generally held women to a lower standard, Rhaenys was not accepting of it.  Dany had been told on more than a few occasions, not to let a man pressure her in any way just because he was born a man and she wasn’t.

 

Her niece was a source of inspiration, and Dany tried her best to force those submissive feelings aside, to be the force of nature that they both knew they could be.

 

Dany had started to ask about the dreams that Rhaenys had, the ones that showed their possible future.

 

“Ser Jorah, should a queen know how to fight?”  She asked the man walking beside her, his eyes glancing every which way for signs of danger.

 

The exiled knight had become a quick source of information for her, especially about their home country. She would even go so far as to say that he might be her friend.  He was honest, if a bit blunt.  But there was nothing wrong with that.  It was refreshing actually.  Dany didn’t want to be coddled, something that Rhaenys had stopped doing too.  And to think that it all started with the truth of how her brother had run away with a woman in secret, rather than making his intentions known.

 

“I am sure that many would say no, Princess.  Many would probably say that a queen should be elegant and poised, her words carefully considered and softly spoken.”

 

As they sat in the place they called home for the moment, Dany didn’t miss that he’d forgone giving his own opinion.  Instead he’d offered what she imagined the overall opinion of most westerosi.

 

“And your personal view?”

 

Those light blue eyes looked up from the glass that he was about to sip from, a snort coming before he could stop it.

 

“Bear Island trains everyone, man or woman.  It is a sparsely populated island and does not have the luxury of being too choosy.”

 

She had asked at least one question per day, most times Ser Jorah had an answer that satisfied her curiosity of the day.  Rarely did he ever try to dodge a question like this.

 

“Do you feel that women are somehow inferior to men on the field of battle?”  The words came out with more heat than she’d meant, but if he was affected it didn’t show on his face.

 

“Of course not.  My aunt Maege is as fierce as any man on a battlefield, and my cousin Dacey is not someone to take lightly either.”  His answer seemed honest enough, but Dany still felt that he was holding something back.

 

“But…?”  She prodded further, violet eyes narrowed towards him, willing him to continue.  She wanted full transparency.

 

“But Bear Island is an exception in Westeros.  Most would see a woman wielding a weapon and laugh.”  For a few moments, Danaerys frowned.  Though shortly after, there was a gleam in her eye that quite obviously made Jorah nervous.

 

“Well then, I would think they would underestimate me.”

 

“Aye, that they would.”

 

There was a silence between them, with Dany stuck in her head and Jorah wary of broaching the subject on his mind.  Whatever it was that had brought this about, the man knew that he wasn’t really in a position to refuse.

 

“Why the sudden interest Princess, if I may be so bold?”

 

Dany leaned back in her chair, hands folded in her lap.

 

“A dragon is not a slave. I would like to be able to defend myself, should whatever guard I have not be sufficient.  I _will not_ be held to the untoward whims of a man.”  Her words were spoken evenly, but not harshly.  Jorah however, knew that the young woman across from him witnessed a number of things that someone of her status shouldn’t be subjected to.

 

It was a double standard to be sure, but the idea of commoner women seeing another be taken against her will was somehow different in his mind.  Perhaps he was blinded by his time as a sellsword, or through his noble heritage.  Whatever the cause, he knew that she would most definitely not like the thought. Not even his status as a knight of the realm swayed this and for a moment, Jorah was disgusted by the thought of how skewed his views had become.

 

“I _do_ hope that you mean that Princess.”  A voice, slightly mocking in its tone, called from the stairs.

 

Neither Jorah nor Danaerys had heard anyone approaching.

 

“Because I would hate for the Targaryens to fall for a second time, and so quickly after getting my niece back.”

 

Oberyn swayed into the room, a dagger in hand and an approving smile on his lips.  The dagger, ornate in design clearly well taken care of, was extended towards her.

 

“Though I would tamper the thought of being underestimated.  Once you are known to be a fighter, only skill will help you.”

 

Dany looked from the dagger and up to her relative through marriage.  She saw only truth in his eyes, a hard learned fact through the loss of lives.

 

“Then I suppose I should get started.  Westeros will have its Rhaenys, perhaps it needs a Visenya as well.”

 

Oberyn released the weapon into her hand and wondered, not for the first time, just how much would have to go wrong before things went right.  The impending war was not at their doorstep yet, and the events leading up to that eventuality could very well alter the course.

 

The only thing that was certain, was that war was coming to Westeros.  Who fought and for what reasons, had yet to be determined.  If he could ensure that Danaerys and Rhaenys were still players in the game of thrones, he would.  For the moment he could do nothing for the hidden Targaryen, but that too would change in time.

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Rhaenys**

While she was most definitely surprised to see her uncle, having not thought that _anyone_ from Westeros would come to verify her being alive, it was a welcomed reunion.

 

Oberyn had held onto her in the city square for an amount of time that most would probably think strange. She didn’t mind in the slightest. This was a family member, someone that loved her and only wanted the best for her.  And that was something that she knew was missing in a lot of families across the known world. 

 

Marriages were so often used for political moves that it was just assumed that when you got married, you either wouldn’t know the person before hand, wouldn’t have that connection to them that she felt should be there at the wedding, or would come to resent ever having done it.

 

It was unrealistic to think that she could change that, but it was a thought that lingered.

 

“Tell me, is there any way that I can convince you to come with me to Dorne?”  it was not the first time he’d asked this question during his time here.

 

Oberyn had stayed with them for near a fortnight before making a venture to Pentos, then Tyrosh, before coming back.  He had not come empty handed either.  Clothes, perfumes, spices, jewelry had all been part of the gifts lavished on herself and Danaerys.

 

It was a sweet gesture, but some of it went beyond the life they were trying to make everyone believe they led.

 

It was a simple ploy, and one that Oberyn had clearly expressed his concerns about.  Doreah and herself were a pair of whores that delved into sexual arts that hadn’t been seen since the days of the Valyrian empire. Where they learned such things was a secret.

 

They had made a name for themselves, as much as she detested the idea.

 

That cooling ingredient that Doreah had, added to the effects of milk of the poppy that they used, gave the patron a dream of such a mind blowing experience that they never questioned having less coin in their pockets than they remembered.

 

None could remember what they looked like, and the whisper on the street was that they were very selective on who they allowed to use their techniques on. This was true, but not in the ways that most people would think.

 

“Would we be safe there uncle?  Could you tell me with utmost certainty that Dany, myself, Ser Jorah and Doreah would be able to remain undetected?”  Rhaenys raised a hand to stall whatever it was Oberyn thought to say.

 

“I know that you and the rest of the family wouldn’t be a problem for myself and Dany.  But a northern man in Dorne would be strange, more so after someone recognized him.  That would make the usurper pay attention, and possibly try to drag uncle Ned into it because the man had been sentenced to death.  Ser Jorah is sworn to protect us, and I agreed to take Doreah with us wherever we went.  She’s the only reason we’ve made it this far.”

 

She knew that Oberyn was only thinking of bringing her and Dany back to Westeros when he made the offer, but she had made commitments, and was going to stick to them.  Even if it meant having to wait just a little bit longer to meet Jon.

 

And with every turn of the moon, she was craving that more and more.  Not being able to speak to him through her dreams was grating on her patience. Doreah had teased her, saying that she was obsessed with a man that couldn’t be as she imagined.  She stopped doing that after Rhaenys had told her of the dream that she’d seen Dany in the night previous, then told her to go wake Danaerys and ask her about it.

 

Needless to say, Doreah now believed that some forms of magic were still lingering in the world. 

 

Oberyn looked her in the eye for a few long moments, before sighing and shaking his head with a laugh.

 

“You will make a wonderful queen, Elia would be _so_ proud.”

 

“In order to get to that point uncle, Dany and I need to start thinking of a plan.  No one would pledge for us if we were to sail without an army. We would just be two women with delusions of grandeur and a bounty on our head.”

 

Rhaenys was a little taken back by the ferocity of the look he gave her then.  So eager was he, to join her cause that hadn’t even gotten through its infancy.

 

“Dorne is with you Rhaenys, you know that.”  While she did not doubt that her uncle would stand by his word, Rhaenys felt the need to ask.

 

“And Jon?” 

 

There was a moment, so brief that she thought it to be only her imagination.  But the tone of his words confirmed it.

 

“Tell me what these dreams have shown you of him.  I’ve heard of something similar during my time here in Essos, but never as vivid as you briefly described.”

 

For reasons that Rhaenys thought she understood, Oberyn’s tone was that of a man at a crossroad. 

 

“You haven’t answered my question uncle.”  She had to be gentle, even though his avoiding her query was souring her mood.

 

“No matter how much time has passed, the wound is still fresh.  Had she possessed a healthier frame, I imagine she’d look _exactly_ like you.  Elia and Aegon are _dead_ because of what your father did.  Because he ran off with Lyanna Stark.  Is it so surprising for me to be reluctant on giving the highest position in the seven kingdoms to the product of our family’s pain?”

 

With a deep inhale through her nose, Rhaenys willed herself to calm.  She understood, truly she did.  Her mother was dead.  Her step-mother was dead.  Her brother, and thousands of others, all dead.

 

“I know what we’ve lost uncle.”  She said, eyes closed.  “I haven’t forgotten.  But Jon is not to blame.  He is just as much a victim of our father’s secrecy as me or Dany.  From what I understand, he doesn’t even know who he really is.”

 

Oberyn scoffed, not believing for one minute that the boy in Winterfell had it as bad as his niece.

 

“He is safe within the North and has Ser _Arthur Dayne_ there with him.  Ned Stark is not a slouch with a blade either.”

 

“And yet whenever I look into his eyes, all I see is a desperation to feel that he belongs somewhere. I would take all the assassins in the world three times over, rather than not know who I am or where I came from.” Rhaenys shook her head.  For as smart and capable as Oberyn was, it was _he_ that didn’t understand.

 

But, how could he?

 

“I remember my grandmother and Ser Willem saying something to me before, and it didn’t make sense at first.”

 

It was like only being given half of a riddle. While someone may _think_ that they knew what it meant, there was deeper meaning to it.

 

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

 

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on the table between them.

 

“I’ve heard that before. From your grandmother when their only surviving child had been Rhaegar.”

 

Deciding to partake in the wine set on the table, Rhaenys poured herself and her uncle each a cup.

 

“I imagine that most would think it to be about the stresses of ruling without someone to share the load.” It wasn’t a Dornish red, but it was a decent enough vintage.

 

“The phrase refers to something else then?”  Oberyn took the offered drink, raising it in toast before taking a generous gulp.  It was clear by the scrunch of his nose that he was not a fan.

 

“Viserys used to say that we were the blood of the dragon.  Of course, I took that to mean our sigil and previous standing as dragon riders.”

 

“Ah yes, the beggar king as I hear whispers of him being called.”  Rhaenys nearly spilled her wine on her dress, sheer as it was, that would have bled through and destroyed it.  She had no idea what had happened to him after they left.

 

“Do you know where he is now?  I wish no harm upon him, but I couldn’t let Dany and I stay there after he killed Ser Oswell.”

 

No, not with his increasingly unstable temperament.  There was no telling what he’d do next.

 

“I heard that he ran out of money fairly quickly.  There were a number of magisters and other Nobles that housed him for a brief time each, before his welcome was inevitably dried up.  A magister in Pentos has taken him in and is the longest roof over his head since.”

 

Rhaenys nodded, making a mental note to search for him at some point.  He was family still, and she couldn’t find it within herself to just abandon him.  With Ser Jorah around, Viserys should pose little threat.  Even less so if there were others to act as guard.

 

“As I was saying, that phrase held meaning I didn’t see until my dreams became clearer. When Jon sees me, his tension eases, his eyes lose some of the hardened edge.  A world away, unable to hear anything I say to him, a projection of the mind, and my presence still soothes him.”

 

Rhaenys was thankful that Oberyn didn’t look like he was dismissing what she said.  Swirling his glass, it seemed like he was thinking rather deeply on it.

 

“It is in our _blood_ uncle.  Dany and I have each other, but Jon is alone.  Sure, he has the Starks _near_ him.  But he’s being raised as a bastard.  From what I understand, the North holds honor a step above the other kingdoms, so I find it hard to believe that he feels like part of the pack.”

 

That was putting it mildly. Ser Jorah had shed some light on how Northmen were.  With the lands they lived on, the harsh climate, and the vast distance between settlements, a strict code of honor and ethics was prevalent in the North that the other kingdoms didn’t adhere to.

 

Guest rite was something they all did, but the North held it sacred.  If a house broke Guest rite, they were shunned by everyone in the region.

 

“He needs us.”

 

Slowly, Oberyn was being worn down by the copper stare she held on him.  Finally, he sighed.

 

“What is it that you want Rhaenys?”  While she knew what he meant, that he was asking what she wanted him to do in regard to Jon.  Once he left, it was unlikely they would see each other for quite some time.  There was much to be done.

 

“In truth, I want very few things uncle.  I want to go home, I want to be happy with my family, and I want to be safe.  But those three things are impossible to obtain unless we take the throne. I am sure that Dany and I could manage it somehow, but with Jon…” Rhaenys shook her head with a smile.

 

“You won’t understand what I mean until you meet him.”

 

His elbow on the table, palm held under his chin, Oberyn gave her another questioning look.

 

“For someone you can’t communicate with, you seem to know an awful lot about the boy.”

 

“Come now uncle, I thought you of all people would know better than to doubt the intuition of a Dornish woman.”  The smile he gave her said that he’d made that mistake a time or two.

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

He had no idea why, but the wildlings crossing the wall and deserters from the watch had been increasing at an alarming rate.  While the first time he’d set out with a group of men had ended with the death of one of his men, the other three had gone to plan.

 

This one though?  He had a bad feeling about it.

 

The normal reports would be a small group having either scaled the wall or sailed around.  Houses Glover and Mormont had sent a raven, looking to their Liege Lord to help repel the frequent raids.  From what Jon had gathered so far, there appeared to be several groups of 20 to 50 wildlings, raiding smaller settlements on the outskirts of Bear Island, Deepwood Motte.

 

By the writ in his possession, Jon was to take command once again with Ser Arthur at his side.  This was a larger operation than he’d undertaken, the knight’s presence would be of help to him and to ease the concerns that both Lady Mormont and Lord Glover had.

 

60 of the men with him were from Winterfell, 30 from the Glover’s and 10 from the Mormont’s.  It should have made him nervous, being in control of so many lives, but that wasn’t his issue.  It was the unpredictable way the Wildlings were attacking.

 

3 on Bear Island, 7 near Deepwood Motte, and even a few on the mountain clans.  The mountain clans of the North weren’t as well-known as those of the Vale, and that was partially because of the positive relationship they had with the Starks.  They kept to themselves and bothered no one.  The problem must be dire for them to reach out for help as they had.

 

There was no pattern, though Jon should have expected that.

 

“What are you thinking Jon?” Ser Arthur stood beside him in the small tent, the lantern the only light available.  Jon sat on his bedroll with a map of the north, having marked each of the locations and the approximated order they’d happened.

 

“It’s all over the place. With a series of raids this size, it has me worried that only 1 woman was taken and minimal dead.  If the dates given to us are right, then some of these are happening simultaneously.  They’re gathering supplies, but for the life of me I can’t….”  Jon paused, suddenly coming to a conclusion that he didn’t like.

 

Looking at the map again, his finger traced from Bear Island and up to the Frozen Shore, then back down along the western edge of the island and then to Deepwood Motte.  He did the same from the Shore to the mountains, then back to the seat of House Glover.

 

“Fuck!”  Jon nearly tipped the lantern over.

 

Settling himself down, Jon peered at the map as though he expected it to speak to him, giving voice to what he wanted to know.

 

“I’m fairly certain that Lord Stark would not appreciate your choice of words.”  Ser Arthur gave Jon a crooked smile, not admonishing him in the slightest, and more amused that it had taken this long to hear Jon curse in his presence.

 

But Jon wasn’t listening, his mind was trying to put all the pieces together.

 

“5 smaller ships from the Frozen Shore, one to hit the North end of Bear Island, another to the mountains, one to Deepwood Motte…It’s the only way this makes any sense.”

 

Arthur was starting to feel a sense of Déjà vu, with how Jon was talking.

 

Before Rhaegar left the Tower of joy for the last time, he too had been studying the maps before him like the battle plans would appear on the page in clear text.

 

“Ser Arthur, I need Dacey Mormont and Robett Glover.  If I’m right, we might be able to stop these raids _and_ get some gods damned answers.”

 

With a raised brow, Arthur waited a moment longer to see if there was anything else.  When Jon just continued to stare at the map with a tensed jaw, he left.

 

Camped as they were to the east of Deepwood Motte, between the base of the mountain range and the Bay of Ice, they might not make it in time to catch the fuckers.  That was, of course, if Jon was right.

 

“This better be good,  _boy_.”  Robett Glover was a middle-aged, gruff man.  His hair was of a lighter brown, showing strips of grey, especially along the balding at the very top.  The thick beard on his face kept his face looking annoyed.  Jon mused that he _was_ annoyed that he was answering to a bastard boy of 14.

 

Dacey followed behind him, looking relaxed and not at all put out by being summoned by someone of a lower status.  If Jon had to guess, Dacey had to be around 20, and was the tallest woman he’d ever seen. Thin and lanky, Jon didn’t doubt that she was still a menace with that mace of hers.  She carried the thing around like it were a child delivered from the Gods.

 

“Lord Glover, when the Wildlings fled, which direction were they heading?”  Jon gave the man’s tone no mind.

 

The man’s cheek was twitching as he scowled at Jon, how met his eyes unflinchingly.

 

“West.  We lost them in the Wolfswood in the night.”  Jon nodded, looking back to the map and tracing his finger back through the wood in the direction Robett gave.

 

“Lady Mor-“

 

“Dacey, Jon, just Dacey. Cut the shit.  We got hit from the North first, then southwest and southeastern points.  The only time we saw which direction was when they hit the North, and they fled west.”  While her voice was pleasant and soft, her eyes and tone were hard as iron.

 

A true lady of Bear Island. Jon had heard that Dacey was as comfortable in a dress as she was in leather armor.  From what he’d seen of her so far, he had no doubts about that.  A woman of little fondness for courtesy, preferring to be blunt and to the point.  He liked that.

 

“Before I left Winterfell, I looked at the records of Wildling raids over the past few decades. Nothing matches the scale and timing of these.  These are _coordinated_ attacks with a singular purpose.”  Jon motioned them to look at the points on the map, made by himself.

 

“I think it’s pretty obvious that they set off at the tip of the Frozen Shore, and if I didn’t have all the approximate dates for each raid then I doubt we’d find anything before the next one.”

 

Jon didn’t anticipate them to say anything, and when he looked to them, he found he was right.

 

“I suspect 5 teams, maybe 6. Bear Island to the mountains, then to Deepwood.  Mountains to Deepwood, then Bear Island.  They’re bouncing in between the areas and gathering resources.  Even with the smaller raids I’ve seen over the last year, they did more damage, took more lives.  The only thing that stays the same with each one, is them fleeing west.”

 

Jon tapped his finger on the map, just a little Northwest of Deepwood Motte.

 

“If I’m right, they’ll have a separate team with a larger ship at Sea Dragon Point to load up everything they stole, then sail back up to the Frozen Shore.”

 

Jon could see that Arthur was trying to bring up a memory, one that he’d already gone over a dozen times since he opened the map.

 

“And _why_ would they be gathering resources at this rate?” Lord Glover may not like Jon, but even he could see the way this was unfolding.  It was logical, made sense with timing and pattern.  Most of all, it spoke of more blood that would be shed in the future.

 

“The last time I saw Benjen Stark, first ranger at Castle Black, he mentioned hearing about the Wildlings gathering in large quantities.  Something that has only happened 6 times in the last thousand years.  If that’s true, it means there’s a 7thKing-beyond-the-wall.  The last invasion attempt from the wall had 60,000 wildlings, if the books are accurate.”

 

While Dacey and Arthur seemed to think that this was an immediate issue, but certainly one to bring up to Lord Stark and possibly the crown, Lord Glover merely scoffed.

 

“That’s what the Night’s Watch and _the wall_ is there for. _Boy_ , you shouldn’t let those bedtime stories get you now.”

 

Jon was losing his patience with this man, Gods help Robb deal with those like this man when he became Lord of Winterfell.  Although, Jon knew that Robett Glover was just being a prick because Jon held no true position in the world.

 

“Lord Glover, the Night’s Watch is only manning _three_ of the _nineteen_ castles along the wall. Of those three, there are a thousand men spread between them. Six hundred at Castle Black, three hundred at Eastwatch, and just over a hundred men at the Shadow Tower.”  The words had started firm, but as he progressed Jon became more and more aggravated with the man, gritting his teeth at the end.

 

“So _please_ enlighten me as to how the North could possibly repel a force of that size when in all likelihood, we’d have no idea they were even coming?  Our men would be killed, women raped, castles and keeps plundered before the raven would get to the closest house available.  And that is assuming that they weren’t being attacked at the same time.”

 

The light was dim enough that only Arthur saw, but as Jon got ramped up, his eyes bled into that same violet that he’d seen before.  The other two in the room probably wouldn’t think anything of it, having only just met Jon recently and not really being around him for more than a few minutes at a time.  If this had happened in a well lit room though?  Questions would be asked.  And that was not something they were prepared for at the moment.

 

“I get that Lord Glover is being a total cunt Jon, I do, but a lot of this is speculation.  I trust the word of a Stark as I would my own family, but we don’t know that’s what is happening here.”  Dacey stepped forward, and Arthur was thankful to see that when Jon blinked, he could _see_ the violet receding.

 

It was a strange thing, watching his eyes turn like that.  If he had to compare, it was like each beat of his heart was pushing the color further into his iris, as though his eyes were becoming bloodshot and his blood was purple rather than red.

 

“Aye, but there is most definitely something going on here.  Wildlings have _never_ organized raids like this without there being someone pulling the strings. We’ll need to send a raven to Winterfell and Torrhen’s Square for more men.  I don’t see this ending until they bleed those three areas dry. 50 men from Torrhen’s and 80 from Winterfell so they can set out near immediately.  That _should_ be enough.”

 

Jon saw Arthur trying to bite back a proud smile and failing.  He didn’t have time to think on why that was.  The man had hardly been anything other than business like with him for years.

 

“Where do you want the men Jon?”  Arthur asked, and Jon had to look at the map again to confirm what he wanted to do.

 

“We’ll split our forces in the camp.  Dacey, take your men home and ask Lady Mormont keep a perimeter on the shores if she isn’t already.  Lord Glover, grab another 20 at least from Deepwood Motte and head to the entrance of the mountain valley.  You’re closer and would know the terrain better.  Winterfell will have 30 head to Bear Island, while the other 50 head to Deepwood Motte.  Torrhen’s square will send their men to me, at Sea Dragon’s Point.  They might have the numbers, but they shouldn’t know we’ll be watching each area.  Plus, Wildlings typically only wear furs instead of any kind of armor.  One Northmen is easily equal to three or four of them.”

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Eddard Stark**

Getting that Raven in the middle of the night had put his stomach nearly in his throat.  If Jon felt that they needed the men _now_ , and Arthur didn’t sway him otherwise, then something beyond frequent raids was going on.

 

As the Warden of the North, he could hardly let Jon and his Vassal houses handle this on their own. Cat had only given a minor protest to his choosing to lead the men.  Ser Rodrick, Jory and the best 80 men they could name had been summoned and saddled within hours.

 

They would still be almost 2 days travel from each destination, and that was with riding from nearly sunrise to sunset.  He hoped that nothing happened within that time.

 

“Lord Stark, what are we riding in to?”  Ser Rodrick asked from beside him, stone-faced and ready.

 

“Anywhere from 20 to 300 wildlings at either of the points.  I’m leaning more towards the 300, otherwise Jon wouldn’t have requested us. He’s young, but capable.”

 

Jory snorted from a close distance behind.  “Capable? The lad’s like none I’ve ever seen at that age.  From what I hear, he’s got a mind for command as well.”

 

Yes, Jon had been quickly earning the respect of the Stark men-at-arms, but this was on a different level.  _This_ was bordering on war.  Jon was effectively a commander of troops in a larger war, split off and having to defend multiple points of interest. Thank the Gods that they _shouldn’t_ be facing armor plated enemies.

 

“Aye, but he doesn’t have the experience.  I don’t think he’d be splitting them up without proper cause, but there’s always the chance that they missed something.”  He spoke from experience.  He could have written home to ask what his father and Benjen knew about Lyanna leaving.  Perhaps Benjen would have come clean then, and much could have been avoided.

 

“You don’t think Ser Arthur would have picked up on anything amiss?”  Ser Rodrick didn’t look appeased.  He was probably the only other one to have a conversation for more than a few minutes with the man.

 

Ned didn’t answer for a few moments.  He had to think of _how_ Arthur was seeing this situation.  Jon was his king, orders from him were oath binding.  But Jon was also his student, considered family at one point.

 

“Ser Arthur has not dealt with Wildlings as we have.  Their movements might look obvious to us, but he’s mostly dealt with soldiers.”  His reasoning was sound enough, just not the full truth.  Arthur _might_ give some small push back if he thought Jon was showing poor leadership, but only that.  The Sword of the Morning took his vows and his duty seriously.

 

The first day of riding Ned was thankful for the clear skies, but he was not as hopeful for the next. As they camped, the summer snows were clearly rolling in overnight.  The amount of snow wasn’t the problem.  When they awoke, the winds were whipping over the lands with a ferocity not seen in many years.

 

Its harsh bite numbing cheeks, and those without gloves were quick to regret it.  Hopefully none would be frostbitten before they returned home. Northmen were used to the cold, but they weren’t immune.

 

As the land became less of a flat plain with widespread forest, the ground rose and fell into hills, so too did Ned’s stomach.

 

Bear Island was where the immediate threat was, from the Frozen Shore, from the mountains, and Sea Dragon’s Point.  So that was where he would personally go.  There was no helping the worry that rolled and twisted his gut into knots. He and Jon may not be on the greatest of terms, certainly not to a point that he’d like, but the hidden king was acting much as he would himself.

 

Lead from the front. Let your men see that you will fight _for_ and _with_ them.  Though the soldiers had no idea that Jon was anything but a lad being given an opportunity to prove himself, it would be something they remembered when the time came.

 

‘If he lives.’  And that was what had Ned to the point of his meager rations about to make a comeback.  He’d promised to keep his nephew safe, but was that what he was doing now, keeping Jon safe?  In the long run, Ned would have to say yes.

 

Rhaenys and Danaerys were alive in Essos, and they would eventually come back home.  When that happened, there was little doubt that his parentage would come out.  If it didn’t happen beforehand.  If Jon was seen as someone honorable and trustworthy, it would help his cause and keep him safe.

 

The sun made its trek through the sky, doing little to alleviate the cold.  Once it was low enough for the sky to bleed orange, Deepwood Motte came into view.  There was no time for pleasantries, nor did Ned seek them once he saw the frantic pace that some men-at-arms were making their way North to the docks.

 

He was lucky enough to catch Robett Glover halfway there.

 

“Lord Robett, what news? It looks as though your men are off to hold back a raid.”

 

The Glover’s were a loyal house to his family, but the man in front of him was prickly on the best of days.  There seemed to be a scathing remark at the tip of his tongue before he inhaled deeply.

 

“Aye Lord Stark. Worse than anticipated by the sound of it too.  A Raven from Bear Island came not too long ago, they’re holding back a long ship of near 100, there’s two almost upon us.  _4_ are said to heading to Sea Dragon’s Point. We’ve not heard from the Mountains.”

 

Long ships?  Where in the world could they have gotten those? Wildlings didn’t typically have anything that could fit 20 men.  They were raiders, not sailors. 

 

“Benjen must have been right, and they’ve either bartered for ships or stolen them.  A King-beyond-the-wall that has already set himself apart.”

 

The keep was walked around in favor of getting his men closer to where the fight would take place, archers manning the walls and waiting.  If given more time, Ned knew that the Glovers would manage just fine. But it was the random nature of Wildling raids, and the rapid succession of these ones in particular that had them troubled.

 

House Glover had around 1,200 men within Deepwood Motte and the immediate area, but that meant nothing for an enemy you’re not expecting.  Gathering your forces took time, something they didn’t have at the moment.

 

“How many men do you have here?”  Ned asked as they walked up the battlements.  The orange in the sky was fading into blue, deep and dark, and would be hiding a ship if they weren’t burning torches.

 

“350.  The numbers aren’t the problem, it’s that we’ve had to keep guard from all angles.”

 

“Ship Spotted!”  A man called out from somewhere Ned couldn’t see, but it didn’t take long to find what he was talking about.

 

The Longship _had_ to be stolen, for it was made of Ironwood. The dark grains could be seen even from where he stood, and Ned felt the twist in his gut again.  The sail, already torn and pierced in so many places that Ned wasn’t sure how it was still usable, had a crude painting of what could only be the Frost Fang Mountains.

 

The deck was filled to the brim with men and women holding shields to repel the arrows that would soon be raining down on them.  His hands twitched, wanting to draw Ice from its sheath but knew that his position was elsewhere.  He only hoped that Bear Island could withstand whatever amount was thrown at them without too much damage and death.

 

House Mormont was small, true, but they were a fierce breed.  As Lady Maege had quipped upon the last time he saw her, those of Bear Island fight with the strength of ten men.

 

Off to the East, there was another call of a ship approaching.

 

“The boy you sent in command, Jon Snow-“ Lord Robett paused, looking Ned in the eye.  To his surprise, there was respect in his expression.  “His orders may have just saved many lives, and The North Remembers.”

 

He didn’t show it, but Ned swelled with pride.  He pushed down the vile thought of what _else_ the North remembers when the truth came out.  How often had he whispered apologies into the air for allowing his fellow Northmen to think that Lyanna had been raped?

 

“Sailing to Bear Island is impossible at the moment, where would you have my men?”

 

Robett pointed to the ship coming in from the East.  Warden of the North he may be, but this was the seat of House Glover.  Decisions made for it should be made _by_ a Glover.

 

“I’ll send archers with you, but I’ll need most of those men here.” 

 

It was said that a wolf at peace, not snarling or baring its teeth was the most dangerous, waiting for the moment to strike.  Ned Stark may be called _the Quiet Wolf_ for his demeanor, but it was just as appropriate.

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

 

He would have waited, continued scouting what they were up against until the time to strike presented itself.

 

The scream changed that.

 

Loud, piercing, _young_.

 

They had been told that a single _woman_ had been stolen, not a fucking child likely to be around Jon’s age or perhaps a tad younger.

 

Jon and Ser Arthur saw her first, and by the sound of plated leather gloves tightening, Arthur was just as disgusted by it as Jon was.  The stolen girl from Deepwood Motte was a tiny thing, almost sickly looking.  Brown shoulder length hair disheveled, several cuts made in her mud splattered dress, one sleeve hanging by mere threads.  They had covered her in a mismatched cloak of furs, though it looked to be too thin to really keep the girl warm.

 

Sea Dragon Point offered little in terms of cover, it’s rocky shore uneven and jagged throughout it all.  50 men, including Arthur and himself, were staggered between the far-off tree line and the weather shattered boulders.

 

His thoughts on them hoarding all they’d stolen onto a larger ship was correct, only it was of far better quality then he’d expected.  A ship that could easily carry the 300 Wildlings he’d thought them to have, plus all loot with ease.

 

Weapons and armor were piled along the shore, being heaved into a longship by men that easily towered over him in height.

 

It was when the stolen _girl_ was grabbed by a short wildling, grip obviously exceedingly tight around the inside of her furs that she screamed in pain. She was clearly sobbing, even from this distance he could see the shaking of her shoulders.

 

Jon could never be sure where or who it had come from, the events would forever be blips of the overall battle, but the whistling of an arrow may as well have been a hundred drums.

 

A Wildling fell, dropping to the ground with the wooden shaft in his neck.

 

It seemed an instant before the Wildlings pinpointed where they all were, a bird screeching from above as it circled.

 

Yells from both sides came, and Jon felt himself slip into a haze that he was becoming familiar with.

 

The sound of his blood pumping, rushing through his veins until there was nearly nothing else, it filled him with heat.  His vision pulsed from the near black and white to overly saturated with colors he couldn’t describe.

 

Sea Dragon Point was bleak with its greys and whites, the blue of the sea and the green of the forest behind were all that stood out before.

 

But now…  He could call them reds, or yellows, orange and purple, but that wouldn’t be accurate.

 

The colors shifted, changed at a moment’s notice.  The point on the ground where a wildling ran pulsed yellow, as if they’d kicked up sand from some Dornish beach.  Arrows flew overhead with a blue so deep it neared on black.

 

He ran with his men, Ser Arthur beside him with Dawn and the unnamed blade in hand, towards the ones who sought to plunder the North.

 

His blood felt like fire, hands burning in a need for movement.  Each breath he took cooled him, as though it was the only thing that was keeping his insides from bursting into flame.

 

Perhaps a foolish decision on his part, Jon had decided to forego a shield, having become used to wielding two blades.  They came into his vision as he ran, the castle forged steel shining like gems brighter and clearer than he’d ever seen.  As Jon ran, arms pumping back forth, he swore he saw a trail of light from the blades similar to waving a torch in the night.

 

This was a dance he knew, one he’d prepared for. Killing was not something he enjoyed, but protecting his home was.  And he was good at it.

 

The furs of the first Wildling rushing towards him pulsed red, like a red light emanated from the man. Axe high in the air, a bellowing yell on his tongue, the man’s reach was much greater than Jon’s.

 

Even so, there was no contest in who the better fighter was.

 

The axe descended with speed and power, but all Jon had to do was twist his body right, pull one blade up with a measure of force.  The axe and the hand wielding it fell to ground with a thud that echoed in his ears. His other blade piercing in between the man’s ribs.  Heart, lungs, veins, it didn’t matter what Jon hit.  The man would die quickly.

 

Ser Arthur was art in motion himself, taking two or three out in moments before he continued to prove his superiority. 

 

Profane and unnecessary declarations came from the Wildlings and Northmen both. Belittling one, mocking the other, comments made that were a waste of air in the midst of battle.

 

He understood it to be a primal urge in the heat of the moment, but each statement was a breath wasted when they should be solely focused on the task at hand.

 

A war cry of a higher pitch came from Jon’s left, a bulky woman with a sword and shield bearing the fist of House Glover.

 

Jon turned to her with eyes narrowed, insulted beyond reason that she’d attack him with the very armaments they stole.  She was slow, clumsy, and it was apparent that she’d never wielded anything like it before.  Steel rang out as he met he with a parry, pushing her blade down and sending her balance askew.

 

The woman tilted right, nearly falling over before catching herself and flinging the shield up in hopes to strike Jon with anything.  It was a frantic attempt to avoid injury, but it gave Jon more of an opening than anything else.  His left sword flashed out across her neck, blood spraying out in pulsing crimson down her furs and to the stony ground.

 

After putting an end to the fourth person to be wielding Northern weaponry, Jon was gritting his teeth so hard they might be likely to crack.  There was no honor, no respect in their actions, and it contradicted what few interactions he’d had with them.

 

Pillaging, raping, thieving, borderline savages they might be, but Jon had seen that they respected warriors.  But this was so far removed from that previous behavior that he almost redacted his thought of them organizing themselves.

 

Almost.

 

That ship, the numbers, the timing, the coordination, it all said that Benjen was right.

 

The losses his men were taking hadn’t entered his mind until he saw the axe cleave right through a man wearing the Stark direwolf.

 

There were easily 200 Wildlings bearing down on them, and if there weren’t so many large boulders acting as funneling points, they’d likely all be dead by now.

 

The men by the tree line didn’t have that luxury, and Jon knew that’s where most of the causalities probably were at the moment.

 

From around another of the jagged rocks came a man almost as tall as Hodor back in Winterfell, close enough that his large handled axe could almost reach.

 

Jon stepped back and felt the world tilt.  An uneven part of the ground made his back-ankle roll.  The pain was nothing he couldn’t deal with, but it was watching that axe coming towards him that had his focus.  Large, sharp and bloodied, it looked intent on separating limbs from his body.

 

With his body falling back, Jon couldn’t ready himself to block with enough strength to do more than slow it down and hope that his fall took him out of its path. 

 

He wasn’t sure what piece it came from, but as his blade met the axe, both had parts shatter and break. Just above his eye, Jon felt the sting of a cut and the hot feeling of blood dripping down his face.

 

The force of the strike pushed Jon to the ground with a blinding thud, stealing the breath from his lungs as he landed on pointed rocks.

 

The world around him swirled as the pain clouded his mind, heaving agonal breathes in an attempt to keep from meeting the Gods this day.

 

His opponent stood above him, a shadow of twisting browns and grey, the shaft of his axe now just looking like a stick with a large end.  Jon reached back with his left hand, looking for a purchase point to pull himself back, to get room to get to his feet.

 

The fur registered first, the fur worn by a Wildling he’d killed not much earlier.  Then the sticky feeling of drying blood.

 

Finally, metal.  Steel or iron or copper, he didn’t care.

 

It was a weapon, and his had been knocked out of his grasp on his fall.

 

The edge the serrated and sloping, an axe, like most of the wildlings seem to favor.

 

The man stalked forward slowly, no doubt enjoying the sight of Jon in pain and scrambling backward.

 

Jon winced, which was probably taken as a sign of injury from the fall but was really from his index finger being cut open from tip to knuckle has his hand glided down to a point he could grasp it.

 

The axe’s edge tapered off, and Jon pushed his hand back and around the shaft quickly, wanting to get the jump on his would be killer.

 

Thankfully the shaft was shorter, a one-handed weapon meant for close combat.

 

The force made him a little nauseous due to still seeing in swirls of color, but Jon managed to throw all available force into chucking the axe forward.  It sped forward end over end twice, before a familiar crunch.

 

The killers shadow stilled, coughed, then staggered back.

 

Jon’s vision was starting to clear but breathing deeply was still difficult.  The Wildling sank down against a rock, and Jon saw the bright red flecks with each cough.  The axe had hit its mark in a way that Jon probably couldn’t recreate if he tried a hundred times.

 

Its tip sank into his flesh just to the side of his nose, poking up into his eye and down to his cheek. He didn’t have time to think of how much force would have been needed to do that.

 

Blinking away his disorientation, Jon saw that one of his swords was indeed broken, the other lay a few feet away from him.

 

There were no shields within immediate reach, but there was another axe.  This one of steel, supple leather wrapped around the shaft.  It wasn’t a wildling weapon, likely one stolen in the raids.

 

Jon couldn’t be picky, so he picked up both, thankful to be armed and getting his bearings back once more.  The axe had a little bit more reach than his sword but having the slight weight difference between right and left hands was kind of nice.

 

The clashes of steel and yells of pain were lessening, marks that the battle getting closer to its end one way or the other.  Peering around, Jon could only see a select few of his men engaging in a fight, with most of the sound coming from the North of him.

 

The sun had descended enough now that the sky was fairly darkened, the light it provided fading by the minute.  If this continued for too much longer, the Wildlings could flee into the wilderness and get away.

 

A streak of shadowed movement caught his eye, two figures huddled closely together running towards the line of trees to the west.

 

There were answers that he still had to retrieve, and the more that fled, the less likely he’d be to get those answers.  With careful steps, Jon made his way to follow.  His ankle throbbed and protested him being moving so quickly, but he couldn’t be brought down by something like a rolled ankle.

 

Ser Arthur would make sure he’d be black and blue for weeks if that happened.

 

The boulders became more whole the further he went, less battered by the salty water of the sea and wind.  Few patches of grass peered through, but not enough to assure Jon that he could keep his eyes focused entirely ahead of him.

 

“HELP!”  It was the girl!  Gritting his teeth in both rage and an attempt to block out pain, Jon ran towards the voice.  Every step sent shocks through his ankle and up to his thigh, but all that did was remind him that he was alive.  He could still do something.

 

She came into view, an attempt at getting away from her captor being made.

 

Just as she turned towards Jon, a fur cloaked figure came from her side as her eyes widened with hope.

 

The Wildling picked her up and threw her over his shoulder with little effort, turning back to head into the woods and abandon those still alive.  Her continued yells for help rose and fell with each of the man’s steps pushing his shoulder into her belly.

 

Jon followed as quickly as he felt he could without risking further injury, his steps hobbled and favored to one side. Coming into the clearing between the rocks and trees, Jon saw Ser Arthur also answering the call from in front of the Wildling.

 

“Put the girl down!” He yelled, getting the first view of the face of the kidnapper.

 

Age was hard to make out, as the face was disfigured in a way that Jon couldn’t describe.  Scarred, rippled, torn and sewn together, there was no reasonable explanation.  But the man was a sight of horrors.

 

His build was rather short and stocky, not packing much muscle and a surprising amount of fat for how scarce he assumed hunting was North of the wall.

 

“You kneeling cunts don’t have authority over me!”  His voice was cracking, either from fright or puberty Jon wasn’t sure, but the pitch made him think the Wildling was maybe a bit older than himself.  That at least explained the age of the girl he kidnapped.

 

“Perhaps not, but we certainly have you in terms of skill and arms.”  Arthur gestured with his weapons, and the Wildling looked between the two of them wildly.

 

The man looked like he was about to bolt into the distance anyway, to try his luck, but the sounding horn froze him in place.

 

“FOR THE NORTH!”  Jon smirked, hearing the beat of hooves coming closer.  The men from Torrhen’s square were here.  It would have been nice to have them earlier, but at least the battle won’t have been lost.

 

“You’ve lost.  Put her down and make this easier on yourself.” Jon tried reason once more.  The cheers of the Northmen and the screams of pain were easy to hear from the wildlings.

 

“She’s _mine!_   _I_ stole her, you understand?! My steal, my wife!” Jon narrowed his eyes towards him. It reminded him of what Theon had bragged about before.

 

Stealing women on raids to be their _saltwives_.  It was a barbaric practice, no better than slavery in his opinion.

 

“Then go steal women from your own people!”  His voice was lower then he’d ever heard it, more deadly, dangerous.  Jon was done trying to play it nice, to give mercy when none would have been given to him.

 

Jon and Arthur stalked towards him, each with two weapons in hand and ready to use them.

 

The Wildling saw this, and _slowly_ lifted the girl from his shoulder.  She crumpled to the ground like a lifeless sack, fainting from the adrenaline and fear of the event.

 

Backing towards the forest, the Wildling had his hands raised in surrender.  His eyes shifted from Jon to Arthur and back several times. Lips starting to tremble in fear, Jon and Arthur saw his hands twitch towards himself slightly, like he was about to pull a weapon of some sort.

 

He came upon the start of grass, still backing away, Jon glanced to Arthur for a moment.

 

“I’ve got him Ser Arthur, could you see to the girl?”  Whether he was in command of the men here or not, _commanding_ the Sword of the Morning was still something that felt too far above his station.  The man had been the deadliest of the old Kings guard, nearly being unanimously declared the best swordsman alive.  Arthur Dayne deserved respect for his skill and deeds.

 

Arthur merely nodded and turned to the side to see to the girl that had been kidnapped.

 

Jon watched from the corner of his eye as Arthur put his hand near her mouth, checking for her breath. After he saw Arthur relax a little, Jon turned his attention back to the Wildling.

 

“I’d have words.”  Jon spoke clearly, maintaining a sense of authority in his voice that he was still getting used to using.

 

The Wildling stopped, eyes hardened with a resolve to do something stupid, something that would get him killed.  He was likely to die anyway, but at least the Lords would offer them a painless death, rather than bleeding out on the ground.

 

“You fuckin’ southerners think you’re so much better than us.  For _what?_   ‘Cause we was born over beyond the wall?”  A hand dashed behind his body, coming out with a short sword about the length of the young man’s waist.

 

“Well fuck you and your –“ A blur of black came and barreled into him before he could finish speaking.  Jon had to blink before he realized what happened, and only the screams of the disfigured wildling helped to pinpoint where he’d gone.

 

“Seven Hells!”  Arthur exclaimed from behind.

 

Walking into the clearing as if nothing could harm them, a pair of wolves had their eyes locked onto Jon.

 

Fur thick and ready for the coldest of winters, one a jet black and the other a mix of brown and grey. Jon felt his breath hitch with realization of what he was looking at, his weapons slackening in his grip. They stood impossibly tall, probably measuring with the young horse that Arya had taken as her own.

 

Muscled and built for both speed and power, lips curled in a silent snarl of warning.

 

Growing up the Stark household of Winterfell, wolves were no stranger to Jon. It was the sigil he saw anytime they went into the courtyard.  It was on their armor, their weapons.

 

Some even went to say that those with Stark blood were part wolf themselves.  Lord Stark often used wolves as reference for lessons for his children.

 

Having this knowledge, Jon was surprised by what he was seeing.

 

While the bared teeth were threatening for sure, it was the perked ears that eased him.

 

“Bloody _Direwolves?_ ”  Arthur said just loud enough for Jon to hear.

 

Wanting to not meet the bloody and swift end that the Wildling had, whose blood was still dripping from the muzzle of the black one, Jon slowly let his weapons slide from his hands and onto the ground.

 

The black one, the male he assumed, took a step forward with a warning growl, tail straight to show how prepared he was to attack.

 

“Back up Arthur.”  Jon said it calmly, evenly, so as not to spook the magnificent creatures before him.

 

How long had it been since a direwolf had been seen south of the wall? 200 years maybe?

 

“Are you _mad?_ ”

 

“They won’t attack without reason, their ears are _perked_ , not slicked back.  It’s a territorial display.”

 

And thank whatever Gods were listening that he’d remembered that fact.

 

Jon went to kneel as slowly as he was able, but the rolled ankle sent a greater spike of pain from being bent that way and he fell.  The black one took several more steps, giving a growling bark with licked chops.

 

Dropping his head, Jon bared his neck to the wolves that were the symbol of his home, the place he sought acceptance in no matter the struggle presented to him.  His fingers dug into the cold dirt as he slid forward, the gesture being one of non-aggression, of submission to the alpha’s territory.

 

He couldn’t be sure how long he stayed that way, but it felt like ages.

 

His pulse skyrocketed when he heard the heavy padding towards his direction, felt the near _magical_ presence approaching him.  The snarling was still coming from in front of him, so Jon assumed that it was the _female_ that had approached him.

 

He wasn’t sure if that was better.  One wrong move and he was dead.  The alpha male would not take any move against his mate well.

 

His black curly hair waved in a light breeze, and Jon realized that she was _sniffing_ him.

 

She did this for quite some time, moving from his neck, to his hair, his shoulders and hands.  It got uncomfortable when she went behind him, her nose pressing into his breeches on his backside.

 

It didn’t help his dignity when he heard Arthur snort in an attempt to hold back his laughter.

 

‘Laugh it up asshole, I’m keeping us alive.’  Arthur surely understood that, but Jon knew the sight was probably an amusing one that he’d likely never see again.

 

His arms were starting to shake from how long he’d stayed prostrated before them, his ankle burned so much that Jon had bit his cheek to keep from moving it.

 

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the wolf eased off and Jon felt safe enough to lean back.

 

His eyes flew open when he saw her before him.  Golden eyes glowing and intelligent, staring directly into his soul.  She closed the distance between them once more, pushing her head into his chest lightly but firmly.  Jon was too unsure on his footing and he fell to his back.

 

Her face loomed over his, legs straddled over his shoulders and just outside of his hips.

 

A smile, and a laugh that forced the rest of the air in his lungs out his body came before he could stop it as the She-wolf laid right on top of him.

 

_Protection_

 

She was taking him as her own, to be a part of her pack, her family.  Nothing had ever felt so good.

It felt so warm, so comforting and selflessly accepting that Jon felt his throat threatening to bring out a sob.

 

Who would have thought?

 

A lifetime of 14 years of being made to feel like an outcast, and in only minutes _a direwolf_ made him feel things he could only imagine a mother would.

 

When the first sign of tears came, the wolf atop him turned and licked at his cheeks.

 

His hands couldn’t be stopped, they came around the wolf and hugged her, before pressing his face into her thick fur.  The symbology was not lost on him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Eddard Stark**

 

Having just returned to Winterfell, Ned had taken a moment for himself in his solar.  It wasn’t the journey, nor the fighting and killing that had him so introspective, though that certainly was something that weighed on his mind.

 

Having defended Deepwood Motte from the Wildling raid, Ned had spoken with Lord Galbart Glover and Lord Robett.  It had come to his attention, by the man’s own admission, that Jon had said for him to head east toward the mountains.  Ned had felt the beginnings of his temper stirring, before Robett explained.

 

_I assure you, Lord Stark, it was not an act of defiance. The raven we received made it clear that I would have already been too late.  We had confirmation of an incoming raid, so I felt it best to remain at my home._

 

Ned could not berate the man for that.  Jon’s idea had been a smart one, though time was against him on this.  The mountain clans had been hit with a smaller band than expected, and they had been able to hold their own.  Losses were still taken, but over all they had been victorious.

 

It was when Jon and Ser Arthur had come to Deepwood Motte that things took an interesting turn.

 

With the men at his disposal, before the men from Torrhen’s Square arrived led by Leobald Tallhart, Jon had admirably held back some near 300 wildlings.  The lad had taken heavier losses than either the Glovers or the mountain clans, which was clearly resting poorly on Jon’s mind.

 

One of those losses had also been the cause, as Ned was told.  A younger man-at-arms whose history only came to light later, had loosed an arrow and lost the element of surprise.  Jory had mentioned that the man had a sister who’d been raped long ago by a wildling and killed herself shortly after.

 

It was a reaction easily understood and sympathized with, but that didn’t make up for the additional losses taken because of it.

 

Ned had not been the only one to stare in wonder as Jon came trotting towards their camp, a _Direwolf_ at either side of the frightened horse. With a scar upon his brow, a sword and axe at his hip, Jon looked more of an aged war veteran than the boy he truly still should be.

 

Not for the first time, Ned wondered if he was making the right choices in regard to his nephew. Sending Jon out into the world, leading men into situations that rarely ended in anything other than bloodshed, was not what he wanted to do.  But Arthur had been right, Jon was going to need experience leading men, and more than anything he would need the North to stand beside him on his own merit.

 

There was an abundance of parchment on his desk that called for his attention, but Ned ignored them in favor of letting everything sink in.  Confirmation of a King-beyond-the-wall had been made, a former sworn brother of the Night’s Watch named Mance Rayder.  Ned would need to send word to Castle Black, for something would have to be done.

 

Out of the 13 captives, only one had spoken about their cause.  Simply put, the wildlings were attempting to flee south of the wall. They had only gotten the man’s name thank to the kidnapped girl, who had refused to leave Jon’s side until she was back home. A true knight in all but name, Arthur had called Jon.

 

They had nothing about numbers, or position, or plans beside the vague ‘get behind the wall’.

 

His moment was over, as told by the knock on the door.  Ned knew who it was and had been looking forward to this conversation since departing for Winterfell.

 

“Enter.”  Ned commanded, watching as the door opened to reveal Arthur Dayne, who was now dressed down from his armor.  A tunic of dark blue with a black cloak around him to stave off the cold he was still adjusting to even after all this time.

 

Neither were one for wasting time, and once Arthur was sat, got down to the heart of the matter.

 

“How did he do?”  Ned had his hands steepled on the desk, watching the knight carefully.  While normally unreadable, Arthur gave a smirk, and the way his eyes eased gave Ned confidence in what they were doing to Jon.

 

“Outstanding. Things did go wrong, through no fault of his own, but he kept a level head. A few times I could have sworn he was the Warrior given true form.”

 

Ned had heard much of the battle, and though he was indeed looking for more detail on the specifics of Jon’s demeanor during that situation.

 

“That scar, do you know how it happened?”  Ned knew how good Jon was with a blade, the fact that Jon had been injured at all had surprised him.  The young man was swift and powerful for his age, cunning and unassuming.

 

Arthur frowned, realizing that in the mere moments that he’d lost sight of his king, it had almost been the end of years of work.

 

“I lost sight of him for a moment in rocky terrain. I ran over and saw him falling back from some poor footing.  He blocked, and the blade shattered, the piece cut his brow.”  Arthur needed no chastisement from Ned on this, the Sword of the Morning was likely feeling guilty enough that he’d nearly let Jon get killed. So instead, he nodded his understanding, though the worry still bubbled in his chest.

 

_Promise me Ned._   His sister’s plea, some of her final words, echoed in his mind.

 

“I only received a minor account from Jon, so perhaps you’d like to enlighten me on how two Direwolves are now prowling about?”

 

Arthur snickered, an act that was _very_ uncommon for the man.

 

“We cornered the one who’d kidnapped the girl, a disfigured sort.  After he put the girl down, he was drawing a blade when the black one came out and bit into him.”  The amusement was growing on the knight’s face, and Ned was having a hard time finding the humor in this story.

 

“The wolves turn back to Jon, and he lowered himself to the ground with his neck bared.  He said something about that growling and snarling being a territorial display.”  Ned smiled, his nephew was a sponge for knowledge, and the lessons on their sigil.  Though the dragon was the mark of his true surname, the wolf was just as much a part of him.

 

If not more so than the dragon.

 

“The other wolf, the female, came up and started taking in his scent.”  Finally, Arthur could not hold back the small and short laughs.

 

“I swear Jon was stiff as stone when she stuck her nose right up his breeches!”

 

The men shared a laugh, Ned running the image through his mind while Arthur remembered the clear embarrassment in Jon’s posture and face.  Arthur sobered first, both face and tone a sort of strange awe.

 

“I’ve heard whispers of how the only magic left in the world lays in Asshai, but seeing Jon with that wolf…” Arthur shook his head.  “Some could claim that a direwolf is more of an intelligent creature than almost any other, but they didn’t see what I saw. That was magic plan and simple.”

 

Ned rose a brow as he waited for more, but Arthur had gotten over his bout of mirth, a look he recognized well was on the Dornishman’s face.  It was one that he imagined on his own more than a few times.

 

Disappointment.  In himself and his actions.

 

“She pressed her head to his chest, pushed Jon to the ground, before she laid herself on top of him.” Arthur said with a sigh.

 

“We’ve failed him Ned. With you trying to keep the secret from falling apart, and me only looking to his future.  I knew there was pain in him, but I somehow believed that my king is so much more than a boy.”

 

The Lord of Winterfell knew that as well, but there was only so much he could do without raising suspicion. He still believed that leaving Cat in the dark about Jon’s true parentage was the right decision.  She was a loyal woman, but also prone to courtesy based on one’s station.  What would people think when she bowed to the whims of a boy not her own?  She was expected to treat him different than her own children, to be angry that he was even here.

 

The fault here was that Ned had not stepped in and personally consoled the boy.  But he was not good at such things.

 

“Jon tried to hide it, but I could see the tears.  The moment that wolf licked them away, I would swear by whatever Gods you want, you could see the bond form between them.  She hasn’t been out of his sight for more than a few hours at a time since.”

 

Ned could count on one hand, the times he’d seen any evidence of Jon crying since he was able to talk.  Quiet, solemn, observant, Ned knew that Jon was many things, and he’d never put sentimental anywhere on that list.

 

“Do you know what he named her?”  Arthur garnered his attention, keeping Ned from wandering too far.

 

“When I saw the wolves, he didn’t mention having named them.”

 

“Not both, just the she-wolf.”  Ned gestured for the man to continue.

 

“Lyanna.”  The widening of his eyes, the short intake of breath and the sudden pounding of his heart couldn’t be stopped or reasoned with.

 

“ _Why?_ ”  The words were whispered before he could stop them.  It was his paranoia over his promise speaking.  No one would think anything more of it than Jon wanting to honor the Aunt he never knew, by naming symbol of the Starks after her.

 

“I would bet he hasn’t mentioned it because he doesn’t want to offend you, it is well known how you feel about the subject of your sister. But he seems bound and determined to connect himself to her in any way he can without even realizing it. The wolf, his relationship to Arya, the Winter Roses.”  Ned perked up at that mention, having never heard anything of it before.

 

“What of the Roses?”

 

Arthur realized then, that he’d never told Ned about that day in the glasshouse.

 

“He’s only ever asked me about his mother once, and I told him nothing.  He was 11, and the next day I found him in the glass garden looking at them.  He said they were the only flower that ever caught his eye, and he wondered if his mother would like them too.”

 

There was a thought that ran through each of the men that moment, unbeknownst to the other.

 

When was the time going to come where they would tell Jon the truth?  Would he understand?  What would he do after?

 

How would he take to knowing that his name at birth had been Aegon Targaryen, that his mother had died bringing him into the world?  Would Jon seek out his sister and aunt?

 

Would knowing that he was the heir to the iron throne break the man he was becoming? With paternal relatives still alive, and planning on venturing back to Westeros, there was nothing else that would keep them alive other than taking the throne.

 

Neither could deny that time was coming, and a message should be sent to Greywater Watch. The documents providing the proof that would be needed being held by the Crannogman.

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Varys**

 

“Will the King be gracing us with his presence today?”  The words were delivered with the same cold seriousness as usual, Stannis Baratheon not being a man of much warmth.

 

“It is unlikely my Lord.” The spider answered.  _Because he is busy pumping yet another false stag into some random woman._   Though he could not very well give voice to what everyone here knew.

 

There was a look that was traded by the hand of the king Jon Arryn, and master of ships Stannis Baratheon. It was so short that the master of whispers was quite sure that no one else had noticed.  Not even Lord Baelish, as he’d been fiddling with something under the table.

 

_Now, what was that I wonder?_

 

Trust was something he did not give out easily, and few could be placed on the list of those he did. Idly he wondered if the south had poisoned his sense of humanity, or if it had long been killed.

 

His dismemberment was certainly a turning point in his life, but Varys would like to think that there was some glimmer of his old self somewhere deep inside.

 

If there was one man he could place on his list, first of which would be his old friend Illyrio. They made no point to hide that they each had certain agendas but had made it a point to make such things mutually beneficial ever since their shared days in Essos.

 

Lord Eddard Stark was one that he _wanted_ to place on the list as well, for he was as honest as could be except for one subject.  What would keep him off of it was that Varys knew love could drive some to do terrible things. The honorable Warden of the North could be trusted as long as his family was safe.

 

Back the wolf into a corner however, and one could never quite know what it would do.  Lash out for sure, but at who, how and when?

 

Lord Petyr Baelish, otherwise known as Littlefinger, was of a similar cast to himself.  The minor lord dealt with secrets, information, and used it to his advantage.  The difference however, was that Baelish only used it to better himself.  Varys was no saint, no altruistic man.  He had used certain situations to move himself up in the world.  None of those however, had been for anything other than the betterment of the realm after a time.

 

In order to set the stage, Varys needed to position himself at the seat of power.  He needed to wield enough for himself to make a difference. Yes, men had died for the betterment of the realm, but some had also been saved.

 

Another difference between himself and Baelish, was how they obtained their information.  What proved to be the lesser evil?  A brothel where the whores were given little choice much of the time, or children who would be given food for their open ears?

 

Unfortunate it may be, but in the grand scheme of things only the end results mattered. What Varys had to be wary of, was the game that Littlefinger was playing at.  His ears were well attuned to sorting out the drones of the useless, picking up the small details.  Parchment, small and light.  A scroll.

 

Was Littlefinger keeping tabs on the king as well?

 

If he was, where did that lead and how would that better Petyr Baelish?

 

It was time that Varys take a closer look into the man’s past.  Facts, rumors, suspicions, everything. He could not very well let all these years of work be for nothing.  If the master of whispers were to take a wild guess, he would bet that Baelish was leaning toward the Lannisters. It was quite apparent that the man sought out the Queens family for gold more than any other source.

 

If there was something afoot, would it be time to set his own plans into motion?

 

Only time would tell, and his birds had three new people to scope. Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon and Littlefinger.

 

“There are a few matters that need attending to.  The first being the bandits along the Dornish Marches, second is the taxes of the Iron Islands, and finally reports of the North of extensive Wildling raids.”

 

But that would have to wait, he had a job to do in the meantime.

 

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Daenerys Targaryen**

They were on the move again, the assassins sent after them clothing themselves in a similar manner to the last batch. The movement was easier this time, travelling with a merchant spice ship to the coastal city.  Selling the home had been easy, though they had lost a small amount from the purchase price, but that was a more favorable outcome than staying in an area that swellswords looking for a good payday lurked.

 

Prince Oberyn had left mere days before the attempted attack, leaving Jorah to protect the three women.  Other than a small cut against his forearm, the man was fine.  Dany felt as though she should have done more to help, but she only had a dagger that was gifted to her. She had brandished it against the lanky man that came in through the window, unimpeded due to his two companions keeping Ser Jorah busy downstairs.  The sickening smile would be an image she was not likely to forget any time soon.

 

What he wanted from her had been quite obvious, those beady dark eyes roving over her body, hardly hidden behind the light Essosi dress.  Since that day, she’d gone against Rhaenys’ recommendations for clothing, wanting to cover herself more properly.

 

Her niece had pouted about it for a few minutes, but ultimately understood where Dany was coming from as she too had been subject to the leers of men over their lives. Still, Rhaenys wore little other than the revealing and sheer garments.  She claimed that her blood ran hot, and the thicker dresses left her sweltering.

 

Their ship would be docking within the next day, and Dany was looking forward to it.  She would finally be able to practice with the gift from the captain.

 

Still in a haze from a fitful rest, Dany hadn’t heard the voice as the door opened, only the creaking of the wood.  It was an instant reaction, one driven by the smile in her nightmares.  The dagger had been ever present since it came to her. Dany had taken the blade between three of her fingers and flung it towards the door, hearing a gasp and a thud as it struck the frame of the door.

 

Her eyes had cleared and she saw Jorah and the captain looking at her wide eyed, and the same from Rhaenys and Doreah to the side.  She’d been so embarrassed in that moment, having attacked a man that was trying to protect her, and another that only offered them safe passage.

 

_“An eye for ranged weapons on that one.”_   His eyes went from her and to the dagger a few times before a smile overtook him, this one as far from the one in her mind as possible. She’d been wary of the man at first, but he seemed a good sort.

 

When he came back, a short bow was in hand that he handed over to her along with a quiver. _“My wife was the best shot I’d ever met, fierce and willful before the sickness took her. I prefer the axe myself, and have no skill for a bow, I’d rather see it set to good use.”_

 

There was no place for her to even try it whilst still on the ship, so she’d just kept to the motions taught to her by Oberyn and Jorah, with the Bear Islander offering some instruction here and there.  She kept at it, using her thin and flexible frame to aid her, practicing until her arms hurt and her lungs burned.

 

She was starting to notice the difference that the exercise was making. Her thrusts and slashes were quicker, and she could practice for longer without feeling so run down. As much as she liked that, there was a part of her that wondered if the bow would be a better fit.

 

Leaving the dagger behind was not something she was considering, but she was under no illusions about her chances against someone in armor.  Daenerys knew that she was rather petite, and even though she still had some years to grow, it was unlikely that she’d ever be very strong.  If the captain was right, she could make good use of the bow and take to fighting from a distance.  The dagger would come into play in a worst-case scenario.

 

The bow felt good in her hands, compact and of good build as far as she could tell.  The leather at the grip was nice and supple, showing only enough wear to tell that it had been used by someone sparingly over some years. Only once she was able to give it a try would she know for certain if this was a path she wanted to pursue.  If she didn’t like it, there was always the option of a short sword.  Speed and grace would help her as she would never be as powerful as Ser Jorah or most men.

 

Sitting on her bed, spinning the dagger in hand listlessly, Dany shifted her eyes to Rhaenys.  The tanned Targaryen sat up in bed, rubbing at her eyes and then huffing. The woman that was more sister to her than anything had been getting increasingly irritable as of late, and she didn’t know why.

 

It mostly faded as the morning progressed, always most potent just after waking.  That left Dany to believe that it was something to do with her dreams.

 

“What is it Rhae?” Dany shifted towards the edge of the bed, sliding the dagger into its sheath.

 

Aside from the still sleeping Doreah, they would be alone for at least another hour.  None had approached their room before the sun peeked over the window, and it was still at the bottom of the sill.

 

With a deep breath in, Rhaenys ran a hand through her dark hair, letting it fall in waves down her back. Though different in their coloring, Daenerys hoped that she became a beauty like her niece. Silver blonde standing next to dark brown, Violet next to copper.

 

Rhaenys smiled towards her after letting her breath out slowly.

 

“My dreams annoy me. I am thankful to be able to see Jon, to know what he looks like.  But not being able to speak with him, to hear his voice is…maddening.”  Dany was still wondering why she called him Jon, rather than his birth name.  The two of them were not in Westeros, there was no harm in calling him Aegon here.  The only thing she could think of, was that she didn’t want to think of the brother whose life was ended so soon after starting.

 

“I wish to hear his stories, how he got that scar near his eye. I want to tell him our stories, that we are safe and counting the days until we can go home.” Rhaenys looked down, like she didn’t want Dany to see the emotion in her eyes that could be clearly heard in her voice.

 

Daenerys was thankful in a way that she didn’t she him as she slept.  She’d tried, but there was only a shadow there standing with Rhaenys, its features indistinguishable. Rhaenys was sure of so much about his character, and Dany wondered if the separation had colored her view of him somehow. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ or so they say, and Rhaenys had been apart from him for a very long time.

 

Brought from her thoughts by the laugh, Dany saw Rhaenys shaking her head with a smile.

 

“I never told you about what Doreah suggested I do, have I?” The statement was too vague for Dany to truly answer, shaking her head was all she could really do.

 

“I get the feeling that Jon just believes them to be normal dreams, and that he doesn’t think them to mean anything. She said I should at least kiss him in our dreams, well… _A kiss_ was the compromise we came to, she suggested more. She thinks that it would help him see the truth once I see him again, to feel the same in person as we did in the dream.”

 

Dany was not surprised by that, as Doreah brought things to a sexual nature in any way she could.  It was how she had been taught. Though she doubted that Rhaenys had any objections in this case.  It was clear to Dany that Rhaenys loved the man in her dreams.

 

That made her wonder about the future Rhaenys envisioned for them, and if it were even possible. Would she fall for Jon herself, or was it to be of a more political nature?

 

“ _Have_ you kissed him?”  Daenerys felt that was the more appropriate thing to bring up, rather than her musings of the future.  For now, she would prefer to take things day by day.

 

The smile on her face lessened, turning more towards one side.

 

“I haven’t.  I want to, but more than anything I just want to let him know that I love him, in whatever ways he wants. I will love him just like I promised.”

 

Daenerys couldn’t help but go a little slack jawed at what she’d heard.

 

“You would step aside for him to be with someone else?”  After dreaming and wanting to be with him for so long?  That sounded ludicrous to her.

 

“I wouldn’t _want_ to, but I also would want him to be happy. That doesn’t mean I won’t try.  I want us to have that happy ending I saw so long ago.  The two of us smiling in the throne room, waiting for him to enter. I want Westeros to be put back to rights by the three of us.”

 

Hadn’t Daenerys claimed to aim to be Visenya come again? A warrior queen, as passionate as she was capable?  Perhaps that was not the best comparison to what Daenerys wanted to be.  If things went as Rhaenys foresaw, she would not want Jon to bed her would be sister wife ten times more than herself.  That wasn’t the love she wanted. She wanted an equal relationship, where the three of them were intertwined into each other’s lives so completely that being apart was a hardship.

 

“If the Gods do exist, perhaps they brought Doreah to us for a reason.  She may be able to teach us something that might help to… _convince_ Jon that he should be with us and not someone else.” The youngers remark was met with a nod.

 

Dany had overheard the former bed slave say something to that affect once, though she hadn’t really given it much thought at the time.  In her mind, this was something that would happen and wasn’t truly up for debate. She would put her faith into Rhaenys and her knowledge of their relative across the sea. She spoke nothing but kind words of him, even though no conversation had occurred.

 

“I thought of that as… Wait, _us?_ ”  Rhaenys had taken a moment before she caught on to the wording.

 

“If not for you, I would be at the mercy of Viserys and his angry outbursts.  There is no one I trust more than _you_ Rhae. If you think we will be happy with him, and he with us, I will trust your judgment and hope it works out.”

 

Daenerys and Rhaenys sat in a stunned silence, too caught up in their emotions to realize that Doreah had woken up a few minutes ago and had heard most of the conversation from her place behind the older Targaryen.

 

It _was_ noticed, however, when she sat up and had a smirk plastered on her face.

 

“Well then, I believe we have a day or so before we reach Myr. Why don’t we get started on all the ways you can get him to think with his cock rather than morals.”

 

The knocks on their door that day had been met with a ragged “Go away!”

 

Their meals left on the other side until one of the girls were unoccupied and brought them in.

 

By the time they made land, Dany had gone through several ways in which she might kiss her potential husband.  She had been given a rundown on what she could do with her hands, her mouth, movements and paces and what to look for on his face to show he was liking it.

 

The flush of embarrassment on her cheeks was hard to push away.  Daenerys had to remind herself that there was a good chance that Rhaenys was to be her sister-wife, and seeing her naked, touching her in various ways was an eventuality.  It would be best to get used to it. Though she did feel rather inadequate compared to the body Rhaenys held. It was like her niece was _built_ for seduction.

 

When next they saw Ser Jorah and members of the crew, it was apparent that their activities were not as discrete as they’d hoped.

 

Dany was _really_ looking forward to practicing with her new bow now, if for nothing else than to release some of this tension.

 

On the other hand… That thing Doreah did with her tongue had been _immensely_ pleasurable.  Trying to say that a woman should be doing such things with another had only seemed to embolden the Lysene.

 

**-LineBreak-**

**Jon Snow**

Training today hadn’t been something that was planned or expected of him, but Jon just didn’t like to remain idle.  His limbs needed to be given some form of outlet and continuing to hone his craft was the best way he knew how to do that.

 

The wolf that was quickly becoming his trusted companion sat off to the side with a bone from a recent hunt, gnawing away at it with fervor. To see the leg of a deer be treated the same way a normal dog would treat a bone was certainly something.

 

As Jon sat against the tree behind him, he wondered if naming the wolf had been a good choice. The name Lyanna had just sprouted from his lips before he could do so much as _think_ about it.  It had felt less like _he_ was naming her, and more like reciting a name that she’d always possessed.

 

That large head of hers perked up, looking at him before tilting to the side slightly. She seemed to always know when he was either thinking of her or looking at her. A true smile blossomed on his face before he could stop it. He didn’t understand how, in such a short time, Jon could say with utmost confidence that he loved her.

 

It was not just a fleeting thing either.  Jon would bare steel against anyone who would do her harm in an instant.  He knew it to be irrational, but this felt like something ingrained into the deepest part of his very bones.

 

Maybe he was losing touch with reality, but Jon would swear upon threat of death that she would watch him fall asleep with a _smile_ on her face. When he touched her, threaded his fingers through her thick fur, it was like _home_ in a way that Winterfell had never felt. A calm he’d never known, a sense of belonging he’d only ever dreamt of.

 

And just as he would swear that she would smile at him, so too would he swear that her love for _him_ was nearly palpable.  Again, this was something that made him think that perhaps his mental state was not up to par. Those golden eyes shined with an intelligence that gave him pause, and the cycle would start over again.

 

This had been happening to him all during the trip back to Winterfell, his thoughts starting on one subject and moving quickly to another. The reason was rather simple.

 

The Night’s Watch now seemed a better option than ever before. With a King beyond the wall gathering wildings of untold numbers, there was likely going to be years of fighting ahead of them. With the numbers as low as they were, that fight could and would bleed into the North. It would only take a small band to climb the wall or somehow get passed it, open one of the gates in an unmanned castle, and the Northmen would be left with little time to react.

 

Jon was under no illusions that his taking the black would somehow solve this, but he knew he was good with a blade, and that would come in handy.  The added bonus of his birth status not having any relevance a the wall was just a silver lining.

 

If he took the black, Ser Arthur could finally go back home to Starfall, and he could finally have all the times he was put down behind him.

 

Lord Stark was probably _never_ going to tell him about his mother, he’d accepted that already. That by no means meant he was happy about it. Jon felt he deserved to know.

 

Lyanna had walked over without his noticing, settling herself down with her head in his lap this time.  It was heavy, warm, even comforting in a way. His hands moved on their own, stroking through fur absently.

 

If the feeling on his fingertips was any indication, she needed a bath, the dirt being felt like beads in her coat.

 

Golden eyes peered up at him as she huffed.

 

‘Oh don’t tell me you can _read minds_ now.’ It was meant as a private jest, but Jon paused as she turned her head and pushed her nose into his stomach lightly.

 

‘Just yours.’  That’s what it felt like she was saying, which made no sense to him.  She was a creature that continued to amaze him, but what had just transpired was something that not even _he_ could believe. But just as there was something inside of him that said that the love he felt for her was given back in equal measure, so too did something tell him that she understood _exactly_ what he’d thought.

 

And that was… impossible? Amazing? Frightening? All of those probably.

 

That seemed in the realm of the dragon, from what he’d read when Arya wanted to learn more of the species that his metallic egg had been like.  The bond of a dragon and its rider was said to be a link between minds, which at the time he’d read it had sounded impossible, frightening and amazing too.

 

If that were true, perhaps dragons were not the only ones with the capability.

 

“You seem more magical, a gift from the gods if they exist, then a very large wolf.”

 

There was no ‘answer’ this time, but she did make it clear what she wanted as she pushed her head under his hand, getting Jon to chuckle.

 

“Hard to argue with that after seeing her with you.” The voice came with a snap of twigs, two figures approaching into the clearing that Jon typically trained in.

 

Lyanna’s ears twitched, but she made no moves to look, instead letting herself enjoy the fingers running deep into the fur along her head and neck. If anything, she pushed her head down harder to keep Jon from moving. The thought of her being somehow able to see into his mind gained the smallest amount of credibility as Jon watched Robb and Theon come into view. 

 

“Robb. Theon.”  Jon gave them a nod. It was strange for them to seek him out, though they had called him to train with them every now and then over the last year. Only a handful of times did they spend time together that didn’t involve a sword.

 

“Even harder to believe that _you_ of all people are the one that has a Direwolf at his heel, _Snow_.” While Robb’s voice had been calm, welcoming and perhaps even awed, Theon was his usual cocky and degrading self. Jon did appreciate it when Robb gave the squid a quick jab into the ribs with his elbow.

 

What Theon mentioned was true though.  Jon may have Stark blood running through his veins just as much as Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran or Rickon, but he would never carry that name. It was also what had made him wary of revealing the name he’d given to the wolf he felt so connected to.

 

He did not want to presume too much and have Lord Stark or anyone else start hounding him for using the name of the woman that had been beloved by the North. While none had been from the elder brother, everyone had heard a few stories of Lyanna Stark. Wild, willful, compassionate, beautiful, honorable.

 

“I believe what our friend here meant to say was that she seems particularly attached to you for some reason.  Even when Arya, Bran and Rickon were nearly climbing on her, those eyes hardly left you.”

 

Jon had noticed that too, only far sooner than when they’d come back to Winterfell and his younger siblings had met the wolf.  Arya in particular seemed especially exuberant, while Sansa did her best to keep to the standard of lady-like behavior Lady Stark had instilled in her.

 

“For a beast that has only just come out of the wild, she seems incredibly… tame.”  Theon’s words had prompted Lyanna to finally lift her head, just so she could bare her teeth in a silent snarl towards him.  The older lad shrunk back a few steps, those teeth being almost as long as a finger.

 

“She’s smarter than she looks Theon.” Jon scowled towards him as he slowly took steps to be in line with Robb again. Theon hated to be seen as being in the background, if a situation could be turned towards him, he’d take it. The only exception was when it involved the Stark family in an official role, such as welcoming Lords and Ladies, or other notable guests to Winterfell.

 

“When she laid down on me the day we met, it almost felt like Lyanna was accepting me as-“

 

“ _Lyanna?_ ”  Robb’s brow rose with his question.

 

Jon cursed repeatedly in his head. He’d let the way Theon described Lyanna cloud his judgment for just a moment, and that was all it took for him to reveal something he’d thought best kept secret until he knew it was safe to speak on. He’d wanted to get a feel for how the Starks might feel about having a wolf holding that name.

 

Robb watched as his half-brother went through a few attempts to explain himself. When he glanced to the wolf again, and attributed the name to her, he had to admit that it felt… _right._

 

“Winterfell has its she-wolf once more.” Robb would have to be blind, deaf and dumb, not to understand the reason that Jon felt the need to hide the name for the wolf. Their somewhat estranged relationship was lessening, and he felt this was a good step to help that along. To be honest, Robb wasn’t sure what had happened with him, to disregard a family member for a hostage. But once he’d realized what had happened, he tried to seek Jon out and spend a little time with him.

 

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives after all.

 

“I’ll be sure to tell father it was my idea, if it ever comes up. No need to worry Jon.” Those grey eyes with bolts of violet through them were more expressive than Robb had ever seen, and he knew the gesture was appreciated.

 

“Welcome to the family Lyanna.”  He spoke to wolf this time, because if Jon felt she understood at least _part_ of what was said to her, then he’d believe it.

 

Especially with how he’d seen her act over the last two days. There was just… something about her, that when someone said she was more than just a wolf, you believed it.

 

 

**END!**

**So uh, not a whole lot happening here. Next chapter will change that. Fire, wolves, discoveries and stuff.**

**Also, updates might be shorter or just pushed back for a while. Buying a house and I don’t know when I’ll have the time to write.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Varys**

 

There was at least a small measure of comfort in knowing that he could prepare.

 

Weeks of digging and listening and coercing had uncovered something realm altering in the worst possible way.

 

Stannis Baratheon and Jon Arryn were as they appeared, men that did not like to deal with backdoor meetings and the typical greasing of palms that had been the capital standard for so long.

 

They were looking into something most peculiar.

 

While neither could really do anything about the acts themselves, the pair had taken to tracking the kings whereabouts. More specifically the women he spent time with. The Master of Ships and Hand to the King were tracking the bastard children.

 

At first, Varys could not possibly understand why.

 

This was, of course, until he started doing the same thing. Much more discreetly, the Master of Whispers went to see as many as he could track down. The disguises varied by the day. He once even ended up in an establishment owned by Littlefinger.

 

The common threads at each stop were fairly predictable. The location would have wine, and there would be a woman with a child of the same coloring. No matter what, the child was always black of hair and sported those electric blue eyes that the Baratheons were known for.

 

It had taken more than a few of these visits for things to make sense, and once they had… Varys immediately wrote a scroll to be handed over and anonymously delivered to Winterfell.

 

When a little bird came to him and whispered of a secret meeting between lions, Varys had opened his eyes.

 

King Robert’s children were golden haired and green eyed.

 

Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, each little lion replicas. The curve of their jaw, the brow, even those smiles were all Lannister.

 

Granted the smile that Joffrey graced the world with was more along the lines of his grandfather, meaning that he looked like someone who was plotting the destruction of entire families. The younger children though, they had the same smile that Varys could recall seeing on Ser Jaime those first few months of his being named to the kingsguard. It was the smile of Joanna Lannister through and through.

 

Varys did not claim to know what the men looking into this were seeking to do if this information had been found, but the results would be nothing short of war.

 

To be honest, the spider berated himself for not catching on earlier. His mind had been too occupied by other events and people. The threat of war had been rising ever so steadily over the years, and he’d believed it would have come from a more monetary transgression rather than the queen lying about who had fathered her children. This was the fast track to open war.

 

And there was no doubt about what would happen if the children were suddenly proclaimed as bastards. Lord Tywin had finally brought his family to the top of the food chain, Lannister blood flowed in the royal family and held the crown.

 

King Robert’s reaction would be ever so predictable.

 

The man would turn red in face, howling in rage as he called for the heads of his wife and her brother. And when Tywin inevitably secreted them away, banners would be raised and blood would be spilled.

 

The more delicate question to be dealt with, was figuring out what Littlefinger planned to do with the information that he himself had found. Being the owner of an establishment where the king had fathered one of his bastards, surely the minor lord had noticed the same thing and had come to the same conclusion.

 

Varys had tread especially lightly in dealing with this next issue, as Littlefinger was the next best spymaster in King’s Landing.

 

Petyr Baelish was born in the Vale of Arryn to a minor lord of relatively new standing, having only gained the lordship in the war of the Ninepenny Kings. His quick wit was apparent even from a young age, which often got him into trouble.

 

After a time, Littlefinger had been sent to foster in Riverrun. The information from this period had been easy to come by at first, it was only the more important details that had taken more careful prodding to be uncovered.

 

Hoster Tully’s children became quick friends with Lord Baelish, though it was apparent that he favored one in particular.  The lady Catelyn.

 

Some of the information was muddy, claims coming from differing sources and such, but this much was clear.

 

Littlefinger had lain with at least one of the Tully sisters. There were some that had heard the man claim to have taken the maidenhead of both, while others disputed this due to his drunken state and clear infatuation with Catelyn.

 

As the story goes, a feast was held in Riverrun, with Littlefinger dancing with the now Lady Stark for six songs. Some say he attempted to kiss her with the lady denying him, others say he whispered something into her ear that she found disagreeable.

 

Whatever the case, the young man went deep into his cups. The long time servants in Riverrun had mentioned hearing his calling out the name of the elder sister in the night.

 

Varys did not believe that to be the actual happenings. Instead, he held the belief that the younger sister Lysa had been the one in his room that night, having shown to fancy young Petyr for some time before then.

 

In his mind, this was further proven after the duel between the Late Lord Brandon Stark and Baelish. Lady Lysa had been noted to remain by his side during recovery, and announcing an aborted pregnancy to her father after Petyr had been sent back home.

 

There were a few questions that remained.

 

Had Lysa Arryn continued this affair after her marriage to Jon Arryn and moving to King’s Landing?

 

Did Littlefinger still love Catelyn  _ Stark? _

 

But most importantly, how would the information of the King’s supposed children help Petyr Baelish move up the ladder?

 

Varys hated having unknown variables. He liked the predictable. And if he wanted to keep the participants in his scheme predictable, they had to be kept at least partially informed and able to prepare.

 

Like Ned Stark.

 

**-LineBreak-**

 

**Jon Snow**

 

Blinking his eyes to adjust to the bright light, Jon found himself in that summer landscape once more. The scenery may have shifted over time, but the climate had not. The sun beat down on his skin with a heat he’d never felt before having these dreams.

 

A part of him liked feeling something so foreign, but his body was accustomed to the cold, and this heat was overbearing.

 

The golden light faded and allowed him to see, opening up to a similar yet different landscape.

 

There was a tall tree that Jon didn’t recognize in a somewhat small patch of grass amongst the cobblestone.

 

This was all that Jon paid attention to, the horizon of towers and other buildings lost in the foray as he set his eyes on the beautiful woman that had haunted his dreams.

 

She changed as he did over the years, though she was quite obviously a few years older. In this dreamscape, Jon didn’t care. This was his reprieve from the life of a bastard, his paradise. No one brought him down here, no one looked at him as though he were a stain upon the Starks of Winterfell.

 

Standing there with a smile upon her lips, was the woman that he imagined Rhaenys Targaryen would have been. There was no reason for him to be dreaming of her for all this time, but it happened anyway.

 

Brown hair falling down her back in silky waves. Copper eyes so expressive that the ability to speak seemed to pale in comparison.

 

Jon assumed that his mind had conjured up a style of dress to please both his growing urges of female companionship, and his northern sensibilities.

 

The bright red garment had to be made of silk, flowing and thin and transparent under the direct light. The shape of her alone was enticing.

 

Jon had seen women in states of undress before, mainly during his walks through Wintertown. Few and far between were the women that compared to her figure.

 

With the sun beating down on her from behind, Jon could see the shape of her legs, long and shapely. Her hips pressed against the dress as it cut in at the waist, the dip of her stomach before widening again at her chest.

 

Jon tried not to stare at the beautiful well endowed dream woman, and failed more often than not. There was something about her that Jon couldn’t turn away from. A pull of something divine or mystical, he was sure. It had to be all in his head, because he had never seen someone so beautiful.

 

Her smile seemed to stretch as his gaze lingered, her eyes crinkling in amusement with the way he lingered on specific parts of her body.

 

This dream would be different in more ways than one, first proven as Jon heard footsteps from the right.

 

Turning towards it, Jon was quick to mirror the slack jawed expression of the one he saw.

 

Silver-blonde hair that fell to mid back, lively violet eyes that were brighter than the only other pair he’d ever seen, but that wasn’t saying much given Arthur Dayne’s normal disposition.

 

She was slender, petite, shorter than him. But  _ gods above _ she was just as beautiful as Rhaenys.

 

This girl looked to be of an age with him. Her clothing was more reserved, a thicker dress that only let the smallest of shadows pass through it. Though in this heat, he could only wonder how she could stand it, the beads of sweat were already starting to form on his forehead.

 

The new young woman before him was obviously a Targaryen, and he had a guess as to  _ who _ , but not the  _ why. _

 

Daenerys Targaryen and her brother Viserys were known to have escaped to Essos, but why would he be dreaming of her?

 

‘Probably because Theon was bragging about having two whores in Wintertown last week.’

 

Neither Jon or Robb had believed the Ironborn, but they let him think they did.

 

Was that really it? Had Theon gotten into his head so much that he was now dreaming of  _ two _ Princesses? It was the only reason he could come up with.

 

He’d never been a prideful person, wanting to get one over on somebody just for the sake of claiming so. But maybe he didn’t even truly know himself, because here he was dreaming of two beautiful young women.

 

As per usual, Rhaenys’ mouth moved with no words making it to his ears, and it saddened him.

The olive skinned beauty turned towards Daenerys and they exchanged a few words.

 

This upset him. He wanted to be able to at least talk with them, especially considering the dream didn’t start with any of the other acts that Theon had bragged about.

 

“I wish I could hear you.” His head dropped as the words come through in a sigh.

 

He looked up a moment later, only to find Rhaenys staring at him with her hands covering her mouth.

 

Daenerys spoke more words to Rhaenys that never reached him, to which she nodded as her shoulders shook and her eyes teared.

 

“Are you alright?”  Jon had no reason to believe she could hear anything he said, but it felt necessary to ask.

 

To his surprise, Rhaenys nodded her head, hands still clasped over her mouth.

 

“You can hear me?” She nodded again, bringing her hands down and letting Jon see what appeared to be happy tears running down her cheeks if that brilliant smile was anything to go by.

 

With Jon and Daenerys both standing still, shocked at the events taking place before them, though for different reasons, Rhaenys approached Jon.

 

The steps were small at first, unsure and timid, but they gained in stride as her emotions overrode the shock.

 

Before he knew it, Jon was wrapped in an embrace full of warmth. It was as though her skin carried all the warmth of the sun, and he felt the bright and joyous heat flooding through her.

 

Being a bit taller than himself, Rhaenys had wrapped one arm around his upper back and the other to the back of his head, pulling him face first into her chest and leaning down to rest her cheek on top of his head.

 

She squeezed him tightly for a time before pulling back. 

 

The light around him dimmed, then brightened to a level that made his sight blur, before returning to normal.

 

He knew the signs of his awakening, and it would be soon.

 

Rhaenys seemed to recognize it as well, and there was clearly something on her mind.

 

Jon was never given the time to ask, as Rhaenys moved her hands to grip at his tunic and pull them together for a kiss.

 

Having only experienced a kiss from one woman, which he later found out had been paid for, Jon didn’t know how to respond for a moment.

 

It passed, and Jon felt himself being drawn into her in a way he’d never experienced.

 

He felt a tongue upon his lips as the light shined brightly once more. Rhaenys pulled back just enough so that their lips were separated, but Jon was able to feel her lips moving as she tried in vain to speak to him.

 

The moment was over, and the light carried him into a darkness he’d come to recognize.  It was always the same whenever he dreamed of her.

 

Upon waking, Jon had always wished that he could will himself back into the dream to be with her.  It hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now, no matter how badly he wanted to continue that experience.

 

All he could do was go about his day as though he hadn’t dreamt of kissing her. Of wanting to just run away from all that he knew to keep a hold on that feeling of warmth.

 

There was very little he wouldn’t give to find out that she was still alive, and then take Lyanna with him to find her.  Leaving Arya would hurt, both him and his sister. But she had the love and acceptance that he craved. She would recover from his leaving Winterfell in time.

 

‘Even in my head I sound like a love struck fool with their head in the clouds. All for a girl that has been dead for my entire life.’

 

When out into that perspective, it sounded pathetic. Pining after a dead girl, now two apparently, and both were former royalty. Jon needed a distraction.

 

Getting up from his bed, feeling the draft through the window that sat just above, he went to uncover the treasure he’d only shared with Arya. 

 

The dragon egg.

 

Prying open the floor board with a knife on the desk, Jon knew to be careful with the egg…

 

Only to nearly drop it as the  _ heat _ surprised him. As it passed through his hand, cutting his index finger with the tip of a scale and barely managing to grasp it with his ring and pinky fingers, Jon looked at the fossilized egg.

 

Once firmly in his grasp Jon looked at his finger, seeing the line of crimson dribble down, and the smear along the digit.

 

But once he checked the egg, there was no sign of it. The egg was as shiny and pristine as ever, perhaps even more so as the sunlight came through the window and reflected so easily onto his ceiling.

  
  
  


**-LineBreak-**

 

**Rhaenys Targaryen**

 

She had never thought that just hearing his voice would bring her to tears, but it had.

 

And they didn’t stop as the dream did.

 

Dany had awoken at the same time as herself, promptly coming to ask if that was indeed the brother she had spoken of so frequently. Upon seeing the state that Rhaenys was in, she knew the answer.

 

With her face buried in her hands, Rhaenys sobbed uncontrollably. She didn’t even know why.  

 

It could have been relief from  _ finally  _ hearing him speak. It could have been out of frustration that he hadn’t been able to hear her.

 

No matter the cause, she seemed incapable of stopping it, and Dany took it upon herself to climb into her nieces bed and hold her until these emotions passed.

 

It took several minutes, but the tears finally left. Daenerys was just about to speak when Rhaenys beat her to it.

 

“That was him. I heard Jon  _ speak to me.” _

 

His voice, it reminded her of her father Rhaegar. The accent was obviously different, and she likened that to his environment and the influence of his mother. But the solemn, kind tone, it was the same as she remembered from days long passed.

 

She couldn’t remember much of him now, but Rhaegar’s voice would forever be recognizable to her.

 

The dreams had been more frequent lately, now coming at least once a week, for which she was grateful.

 

But at the same time she disliked it. To see him was a blessing, but the silence was horrid.

 

What had happened to change this? What miracle had been bestowed to them?  She didn’t care. If it came from the gods, she would praise them, if it was fate then she wouldn’t know who to thank.

 

“He seems… lonely.” Dany spoke carefully.

 

It was in his eyes, as it always is. Those expressive stormy eyes that were such a mix of his parents. That thundercloud grey and the violet bolts of lightning.

 

Breathtaking. There was no other way to describe it.

 

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”  Rhaenys had said this to Dany more frequently as of late.

 

There was silence s Dany and Rhaenys both stewed in their thoughts until…

 

“At least he’s pretty.”  Dany saw it fit to try and loosen the tension with a joke.

 

Rhaenys smiled towards her young aunt.

 

“That he is.”

 

Rhaenys had never given her thoughts on this to anyone before, but just the raven curls on Jon’s head somehow managed to be prettier than most women she’d seen her in Essos. Again this was something that their shared lineage delivered. Valyrians were a beautiful people as apparent by the Westerosi descendents.

 

Now more than ever, she wished they had been able to make some sort of progress towards heading home. But circumstances hadn’t allowed it. There was only the most. Barebones of plans in place that would still take years to enact properly.

 

To be honest, Rhaenys wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

  
  


**End!**

 

**Short chapter, but my initial plan would have had it around 12-15k and I just don’t have the time to get something like that out right now.**

 

**Next chapter will probably be the rest of what was intended. The wolves and the fire.**


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